A Chelsie Christmas
by RhondaStar
Summary: Taking on the Chelsie Christmas Challenge - short festive themed stories.
1. Chapter 1

**Chelsie Christmas**

 **A – Advent**

 **December 1st** **,** **1926**

Elsie liked the snow. No, that was far too simplistic. She loved snow, it brought the child out in her, reminded her of youthful vitality. Her heart would beat that little faster when the first flakes fell. She was reminded of home, snow so cold it froze the inside of her nose and left behind a raw bitter smell in the air.

Ice, however, was the bane of her life.

Ice seemed to hang around in Yorkshire. It set the gardens and left her slipping home. Snow would bed down, compact and was passable. Ice was a disaster waiting to happen. Maids would complain of twisted ankles and aching backs, deliveries would be delayed, the driveway was a hazard.

It caused, if not hastened, her headache.

It was dark by the time four o'clock came, and, though she had her half day, she was late leaving. The walk into the village was a necessary detour that only added to her aching feet. She needed new boots and she truly hoped Charles would take the hint and suggest they buy some for her Christmas gift this year.

There was a pie in her basket, carrots, cabbage; she just needed to prepare the vegetables as the pie warmed. She loved her husband dearly but it did rather irk her these days when she'd been working all day and he had been fancy free and yet still she prepared their evening meal. Sometimes he would come to the house to eat with her and the staff, but that was rare now, he still found it jarring, to be out of the mix, not commanding, not taking the helm.

"She's still missing," Charles said, as Elsie pushed in through the kitchen door, bundled up with red cheeks and a redder nose.

"What? Who is?"

"Christie."

"Oh goodness, Charles," she started to unbutton her coat and turned as he took it from her shoulders and went to hang it.

"I fetched the newspaper this morning after you'd left, and still no sign of her. It's like she's featuring in her very own mystery."

"You have far too much time on your hands these days, you never used to be interested in such things."

"I might have been. You don't know."

She smiled at his crestfallen expression and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Good evening dear."

"Good evening."

"I know you like her books."

"This year's publication was particularly good."

"I thought so too," she filled the kettle and lit the stove for it to warm on. "I'll prepare dinner soon, I just need to change first."

Charles took a seat at the small dining table, watching as she tugged off her boots and rubbed her ankles. It still made him blush to see her carry out private, intimate tasks, and yet he felt honoured too, to be part of it.

"No rush," he said.

"You haven't been eating cake again, have you?"

He shook his head, "No, I followed your rules, no sweets, no cake, not until Christmas." He briefly rested his hand on his burgeoning belly. The days of keeping trim from hard work were gone and Elsie had finally broached the subject of cutting back but two weeks earlier. It hadn't been comfortable but he accepted her points.

"I felt a little bad," she said, warming the pot for tea.

"About?"

"The ban on your sweet tooth."

He chuckled, "He and I are trying to make peace with it."

"You're in a good mood."

"What's not to be in a good mood about? I've had a good day, it's a beautiful December afternoon, and my wonderful wife just came home."

"That was the very thing."

"What was?"

"December. The 1st of December."

"And?"

"The start of advent."

"I have the candle ready for us to light later, I thought when we settle down to read by the fire with a little tipple of something."

"Sounds divine. And peaceful. But not that. Although in a way I suppose it works on the same principle." She carried his tea to the table, loosening a few of the buttons on the neck of her dress in preparation for changing. "I bought you a gift."

His eyes widened, "Elsie! Really –,"

"What? Oh goodness, no, really Charlie. I got you something in the village."

"You went to the village?"

"On my way home," she fussed in her basket. "Here. Just for you."

He took the brown paper bag from her and peeled down the sides to peer inside. "But aren't these banned?"

"All at once they are. But I thought one a day, for advent, I asked Mrs. Harp to measure them out exactly."

He lifted a pink and black one from the bag and held it between his thumb and forefinger. "Liquorice Allsorts are my favourite."

"I know. Because I'm your wife and I pay attention. That's your advent treat."

"And you, of course."

She smiled slowly, "Of course."

He reached a free hand out to her, "Our second Christmas together."

"Yes." She stepped closer to him. "How do you feel about that?"

"Like things are perfect."

She cocked her head to one side, "Even after a year as advisor?"

"Yes," he briefly touched her hip and then broke the sweet in half. "Here."

Her eyebrows rose, "Really?"

"No one I'd rather share it with."

She took it from his fingers and placed it her mouth, watching as he did the same. They held each other's gaze as they ate. As the instant sweetness coated their tongues.

"It'll rot your teeth," she said softly.

"Happy first of December, Mrs. Carson."

"Happy first of December, my darling."


	2. Chapter 2

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **B – Baking**

 **December 2** **nd,** **1926**

There was a meeting of the village committee mid-morning, Charles' second favourite time of day. In his official role as chief advisor and, unofficial role as general director of the entire thing, he had found a new passion and it was wonderful, something to fill his days now he had nothing but time.

How odd life could be, how contrary and diverse. He'd spent a lifetime rushing from one job to the next. Had lived with overlapping thoughts vying for attention, following schedules so tightly packed he had struggled to remember who he truly was. What was in his heart.

Now there was nothing but love and he was still surprised by that – only occasionally mind, the majority of the time he revelled in how glorious it had all become. Though he had waited a lifetime, perhaps more than one.

Time. He had it in spades now. In fact, often of an afternoon he would take himself out for a walk just because the hours before Elsie would come home seemed long and tedious. They lengthened as it got closer to having her back with him in their cottage. He had considered, though not discussed it with her yet, suggesting retirement. But then perhaps to her the thought of being with him day in, day out would be torture. The new laws regarding pensions would benefit them both; it was common knowledge he wasn't one for change but some things were welcome. The war had been devastating but its impact on societal change was still being measured, and, as Charles had often noted as the years had passed, it was for the positive.

"A gingerbread house?" He had asked quizzically when Mrs. Lamb had carried one into the meeting and placed it in the centre of the table.

"It's quite wonderful, Mr. Carson, we can sell raffle tickets to raise funds. This being the main prize."

"And would people really part with their hard-earned money for… gingerbread?" He asked with a frown.

"Mr. Carson," Mary Salter had chipped in, "You've obviously never tried any of Mrs. Lamb's gingerbread. They would definitely buy raffle tickets for it."

The problem with being head of the village committee was that he was quite often surrounded by women, indeed bringing them to order was a task in itself, they always seemed to have something to discuss other than the business at hand.

"I happened to have made extra," Mrs. Lamb said, unfolding a tea towel from her basket. "Plenty for us to have with tea."

And that was where it had started, with that piece of gingerbread.

He had walked home just prior to lunch, his belly making the most ungentlemanly rumble as he'd walked the gravel path to the row of cottages – theirs standing proudly on the end. And he was proud of it. It was theirs. Their home.

The taste of gingerbread – sweet, sharp, warming – lingered even after his cheese and pickle sandwich and he longed for more. That sweet tooth. He gave in and ate his liquorice allsort for the day with a pot of tea. It barely filled a cavity. He wondered briefly if his newly formed desire for sweetness was due to boredom but pushed the thought aside.

The gingerbread house itself was quite beautiful and, though he wouldn't say it publically, he was impressed with the grandeur of it – built as it was to imitate Downton. When he'd stared at it as tea was poured by the ladies, he could even see himself walking the halls past those endless windows.

"Oh goodness man!" he snapped to himself and got up from his seat, opening the back door and taking in some air.

Perhaps he would do something wonderful himself, he was an intelligent able-bodied man, he could surely make a batch of gingerbread. And the house structure didn't seem so unmanageable, he could craft their cottage with little effort. Four walls, a base, a roof – that was seven large squares. Mrs. Lamb appeared to have used icing to link the sides together, he could do the same. Wouldn't that be a treat for Elsie when she got home, to see their quaint little cottage sitting on the dining table? How impressed she'd be with her husband's efforts.

They had a copy of Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management, as every household worth its salt would, and he quickly found the recipe for gingerbread men and decided he could easily adapt it to make the outer structure of the cottage. A quick list and he was back to the village to purchase the ingredients.

It was after two by the time he returned home and he set to quickly mixing the batch, greasing and lining tins, and putting the biscuit treat in to bake. The kitchen glowed with the fragrances of it, rich spice permeating its way into every wall, sofa and even their bed linin upstairs.

He didn't venture far during the baking process but perched on a small chair beside the oven to observe and check for signs of burning.

All came out perfect. He left the tins to cool, mixing icing sugar and water as he had seen his mother do when he was a child. Funny how things came back to you. The gingerbread came out of the tins and were gently placed onto the racks to cool whilst he sketched the outline of his design on a piece of the parchment with a blunt pencil he found in the drawer beneath the coat rack.

After four they were cool enough to work with and he rolled up his shirt sleeves, for the kitchen was now warm, and sat at the table to work. The white mixture was carefully spread along the edge of the base and the first wall applied. He counted to one hundred as he held it, then let go. It fell down. He caught it before it landed, reapplied the 'glue' and held it for two hundred seconds. It stayed in place.

It took thirty minutes to fix all four walls in place and then he took a rest. He boiled the kettle for tea and took a stroll around the garden as the sun set; there was gold in the sky and it gave him a new thrill of determination. He would finish the structure. Decorate it. Then light a fire, slice the bread thick and take the butter from the fridge. They could sit by the fire and toast it for dinner. He would light the advent candle and they could sit and talk over their day. He would boast of the ginger cottage and then they'd take off the roof and eat it, celebrating his baking achievement. Perhaps an early night.

* * *

Elsie left earlier than she imagined she would. It was only the family for dinner and Barrow assured her they could manage, asking if she wanted escorting home. She was glad of the offer. It was still frosty out, more so as the day wore on, and her legs tired easily these days it seemed. She was driven back to the cottage, quite the treat, and was looking forward to a bath before she prepared dinner.

"Charles," she called as she pushed open the door and set about unpinning her hat. "There's fish pie for dinner, Mrs. Patmore kindly made us extra." She paused at the sweet smell emanating from the very walls. "Charles…?" She said more gently, and turned down the short hallway and into the sitting room. At the far end, where their dining table sat, was Charles, asleep with his head on the table.

The fire was dead. The lights off and she first turned on a lamp and slipped off her coat, laying it over the back of a chair as she tiptoed to the table.

In front of Charles was a bowl of jelly sweets, she popped a red one into her mouth and chewed as she took in the sight. There was a slightly wonky structure, white icing seemed to be dripping from, what was clearly intentioned, to be the shape of windows. There was icing on the table and as she followed its trail it led to Charles' hands.

"Oh my dear," she smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Charlie," she said again by his ear and he slowly woke, lifting a sleepy head with heavy eyes.

"You're home?" He said softly, and reached to touch her arm but she pulled back.

"Not until you've washed your hands."

He stared at them as realisation dawned.

"Oh no…" he sighed, sitting up, "it was meant to be done." He gazed sadly at the crumbling structure. "It was all going so well."

She smiled at his endeavours. "What were you trying to do?"

"Build our house."

"Out of gingerbread?"

"Yes," he fiddled with a corner of the roof. "I wanted to surprise you, please you." He gazed at his hands. "Then they wouldn't comply."

She covered his sticky hands with hers, "Oh darling, there is no need, you've already built this house, this home. With me."

His eyes softened as he gazed at her and she pressed a kiss to his forehead, holding the moment for longer than planned.

"Let's try it." She picked off a corner and placed it in her mouth. "Surprisingly," she said, "it tastes rather wonderful."

"I got that part right. I thought we might sit by the fire, have tea and toast and gingerbread."

"That sounds lovely, but first, you need to light a fire."

He looked to the dead hearth, "I ran out of time."

"Baking gets you that way." She collected up her coat, "I'll go take a bath whilst you build it up."

"Alright," he yawned, and pushed his chair back, getting to his feet. The kitchen area was a shambles and he needed to clean it, hide it away and forget what a mess it began. Damned icing. He would rinse his hands, light the fire and then start on clearing the untidiness away before she came down from her bath.

"Charles –," she called from the halfway up the stairs.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

He smiled, "You're very welcome."


	3. Chapter 3

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **C – Children**

 **December 3** **rd,** **1926**

Friday had become Charles' favourite day of the week. And for none of the reasons that workers would usually find to cherish the precious day. He found every day was a free day, a time to fill with whatever pursuits his heart desired. He had a routine now, and routine kept his fire burning. He rattled on through life, the days circling him until Friday came.

Blessed Friday.

For Friday was Elsie's half day.

She slept, the long days catching up with her, and he would potter about in the kitchen, making tea and preparing porridge – he was quite good at it now. She liked hers best with blackberries from their garden, but by December she had to settle for a drizzle of honey.

An eternity of early mornings meant she was still up and dressed by seven thirty. They were seated at either end of the dining table as they ate.

"I thought we might take the eight thirty bus," he said as she rose to refill their tea cups. "That will get us into Ripon in good time."

"Sounds fine," she said, her voice light. "A full day together." She had saved up her hours for the past two months in anticipation of a day's leave. They would shop for gifts, take afternoon tea in the café he liked. Share each other's company.

"Good porridge this morning," he said, unable to find the words to express his joy at their time in solitude.

"Very good," she smiled. "Imagine… gingerbread one day, porridge the next."

He glanced fleetingly at her smiling face, shaking his head just slightly.

* * *

The bus was crowded, a weekday morning as it was, and Charles graciously gave his seat to an elderly lady though remained standing beside the place Elsie sat. She watched his hands gripping the back of the seat in front, but he kept his balance and the journey wasn't long.

"I love December air," she said, taking his arm as they walked towards the market. "It's so very clear and fresh."

"There is a full moon this Sunday," he said confidently. "Which accounts for the lighter night we had. And the owl."

"Have you found his resting place yet?"

"He is still somehow managing to elude me."

"Though keeping you awake at night," she paused, loosening her arm a little from the crook of his. "I will go inside; their wool is fairly priced and I thought I might make Becky a shawl for Christmas. I should have started earlier, truth be told, but she won't mind if it's late." She didn't say 'she won't know' but thought it nevertheless. "Do you wish to come in with me?"

"I will wait." He said, and stepped back from the door as she went inside, the bell jangling above her. It was a second of an image, the rise of a foot as she took the step inside, and he caught sight of her ankles in black boots and the slight rise of her long skirt as she moved. His eyes drew up the slender outline to her waist and then the door shut after her and he turned away, ashamed for having such thoughts in broad daylight.

He strolled across the cobbled walkway, careful of his step, it was frosty and the stones damp. Two boys were rolling a hoop between them, their raised voices clattering along with their entertainment. Charles watched them with glee, recalling 'The Hoop Nuisance' that had dominated the newspapers for many a year when he was young. Truth be told, he enjoyed the pastime as a child and wouldn't wish it banned from the streets, as long as they played within reason. He briefly wondered why they weren't in school and hoped to goodness they got an education.

He would never admit that to anyone but his wife, he had rallied against it for so many years in the house, but he could see the good in it now. To be educated, to find your place, he understood Elsie's arguments even if it went against his usual grain. The world was changing, which caused him palpitations if he dwelled on it, but his way of life – the one he'd grown up with and built his life around – was dying out and for young boys of a class such as this, there needed to be something else to pursue for your life's career.

Charles had always thought if he had ever had children his son would follow in his footsteps, as he had done his father and grandfather. Now there seemed a changing of the tide and he couldn't help but feel insecure about the imaginary choices his imaginary son might have made.

* * *

"I should like to visit the cathedral whilst we're here." He said later as Elsie paid for the dried fruits she had purchased from a market vendor.

"I would like that too," she placed the package in her basket. "These will be wonderful with your Port," she said, her voice warm and eyes shining as she looked up at him. "I have noticed for years you have taste for dried figs and dates."

"I do, and so kind of you to notice, though I do know of your impeccable observation skills my dear Mrs. Hughes."

It still made her smile when he called her that, quite by error, and she held on tighter to his arm as they walked in the direction of the church.

Inside she lit candles and stood to say a prayer as Charles walked the periphery. He joined her in one of the pews and they sat in silence taking in the beauty of the building. There were trees decorated for the season, and a still calm aura about the place. Elsie shifted her gloved hand over to press on top of Charles' and he cast her a quick glance of appreciation before turning his attention to the stained-glass windows.

He studied each one in turn but lingered over the Madonna and child. He was unsure why it held his attention so, after all it was an image he'd seen since his youth. Perhaps it was the time of year, or the touch of Elsie's hand on his, but it struck him so – the mother, and the purity that brought.

"We should leave soon," she whispered, "it's after three and will be dark by four."

"Yes," he said in hushed tones and looked back at her. Her pale cheeks were flushed from the outdoor frost and the contrast of being inside; her shining eyes were filled with affection for him and he saw for a moment the girl she had once been, the child, and pondered momentarily on whether they would have gotten along as children.

* * *

There was a snow storm, hazardous flurries and howling winds. Inside, a fire, burning central in the hearth – violent, warming. A figure in the chair facing the fire bent forward, cooing and hushing. A gentle, soothing lilt to the voice as it sang so very softly. For a second, Charles was unsure whether he was watching or the child on the mother's knee, the recipient of the ditty.

When he pushed around the table the woman looked up at him, dark hair but those same eyes, gone were the lines, she was as he remembered the first time he saw her.

"Hush little baby," she said, and smiled kindly at him. "Time to sleep."

It jarred him to see her dress open, and a child, a babe, suckling at her breast. Mouth open, breathing heavy, he stepped closer, instinct telling him this was his son, this was the child they had made out of love. And he would continue to love him and raise him and do all he could –

"Charles," Elsie's elbow jabbed him for a third time in the ribs. "Sorry darling," she hissed by his ear, "But we are arriving in the village and you need to wake."

He looked squarely at her, disappointment filling him and the wonder of that sight, the sheer joy of what he was part of, left him like a balloon deflating.

Disorientated he followed her down the bus when it stopped. The crispness of the early evening air biting at his cheeks as he stepped down and held out his hand to help her.

"Are you quite alright?" She asked once they were out of earshot of others and walking home.

"Yes, quite."

"You slept so deeply, so suddenly. And you looked at me in the oddest way when I woke you."

He considered sharing his dream, but once he thought of it again loss consumed him and he decided to keep that image sacred, cherished.

"Do you think," he asked, opening the gate to their path. "That you and I… Well…" he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Had we married earlier, that we might have…"

She paused, turning to peer at him by the light the moon provided. "We might have…?"

"Had children?"

"Oh," she almost gasped but her sensibilities knew better. Certainly there was no chance of it given their ages but there was no lack of intimacy despite that fact and had they'd been young and found this natural affinity for lovemaking then, well… "Of course." She said quickly, "I would like to think that I would have bore your children."

"How many?"

Her mouth twisted into a smile at his eagerness, "Three I think. I like that number. A boy and two girls."

"You would have had your hands full."

"Yes," she found the key. "It would have been a very different life."

Above them an own hooted.

"Your friend is back," she said as they both looked to the sky. "A clear night."

"There will be frost tomorrow, you will take care, in fact perhaps I should walk with you in the morning, just to be sure."

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, "As you wish. Let's get the kettle boiling shall we, I'll make tea and heat through that fish pie from yesterday."

"Yes," he said, still standing outside and staring at the star lit sky, "Yes, that sounds fine."


	4. Chapter 4

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **D – Dashing**

 **December 4** **th,** **1926**

Around her the snow continued to fall, like dust in the early morning darkness. Everything was still, silent, almost eerily so. She focussed in on the rhythmic crispness of her steps, her breath a white stream upon the damp air, the familiar path blanketed over.

It hadn't quite turned six when she reached the back gate to the grounds, reluctantly removing a glove to find the key deep in her pocket and unlocking the bolt. She took the front path, not her usual route, in order to assess the driveway. Surprisingly Thomas was already supervising two young boys who were shovelling the walkway – she watched him, pausing by the corner of the house.

Against the stark background, his silhouette caught her breath as she remembered a much younger Charles Carson doing the same, only barking orders. Her memory was fuzzy, and try as she might she couldn't recall the year or her age. But that feeling, a sudden sharpness in her chest, that still remained. Seeing him in a different light, those broad, broad shoulders.

"Good morning, Mrs. Carson," Thomas said and she lifted her chin, smiling a hello. "Cold one today."

"It certainly is."

Downstairs there was the smell of bacon and, despite her years and years of training, she was still only human and her stomach curled in on itself as she imagined the taste of it. Perhaps she could manage to sneak a piece as she got her morning tea.

Her office was warm, somebody had clearly lit the fire in there, and she hung her coat, scarf and hat and took a quick shuffle through her in-tray. The downside of having a day off was the return; she knew it would be hectic, hence her early start. This close to Christmas too and all the plans to be finalised.

Glancing at her diary she mentally listed her tasks – a meeting with her Ladyship mid-morning, then Mrs. Patmore after lunch. She wanted to meet with Anna at some point to review her position now she had returned full time and there were other duties too; for one she wanted to review every room and check the two new housemaids weren't slacking.

Charles, Ripon and Christmas shopping seemed a lifetime ago.

She had left him asleep, which was odd in itself. But then she had dozed long before him the previous night. Usually he slept after they had made love, and she would be the one lying beside him, sometimes holding him, other times him her, watching the fire dwindle as the last traces of their shared pleasure slept in her loins. That night he had been different, powerfully so, as if he had a memory of something he wanted to find again. She had been exhausted, she hadn't even left their bed afterwards but had curled against him, sighing contentedly and that was it. Sleep.

She felt her cheeks blush as she made her way into the kitchen, boots changed into her normal heels, adjusting her belt slightly as she rounded in behind Daisy who was already halfway through her second batch of Christmas cakes.

"I saw that," Mrs. Patmore said, seemingly appearing from nowhere as Elsie snatched a piece of bacon.

She made no attempt to hide it now she'd been spotted, instead biting the end off and watching as Beryl poured tea.

"Early today. How was shopping? Did he behave?"

"Perfectly so and it was useful, I got quite a few things done. Oh, and that fish pie was delicious, he sends his regards."

"How is he?"

"Better I think."

"The grumpiness eased then?"

Elsie glanced around the kitchen, careful they were alone. "He seems to be falling into a routine I think, the new role in the village certainly helped."

"And staying away from here."

"Yes, and that." She bit her lip, spooning sugar into her tea and remembering the awkward conversations they had when she'd been trying to explain his daily visits and running commentary fon Thomas wasn't healthy – for anyone. He had been grumpy with her for almost a fortnight but they'd ridden it out and things actually seemed better now.

"Thank you for this," she said, excusing herself and returning to her office. Time to get started.

It snowed on and off through the day, Elsie caught glimpses of it as she passed a window or chased Tia out of the hallway and into the back yard. The dog was still enchanted by snow and barked to high heaven as she chased her tail and yapped at Elsie.

"Silly thing," she said, annoyed the gate had been left open and she had to go out into the cold to close it before the dog escaped. Luckily Tia was the most docile of his Lordship's dogs and escape never came to mind.

"Come on," she instructed as the dog nuzzled the back of her legs, "I haven't got time for this. Come on inside, go get your food." She tugged on Tia's collar and the dog dutifully followed her in and to the back kitchens.

"I am too old for this," she whispered to herself, heading upstairs for the hundredth time that day. The backs of her legs ached and her shoes were rubbing her heels already, and with six hours still to go.

She met Thomas in the dining room to discuss possible changes to the New Year celebrations; he had ideas and now, with almost a year under his belt, she was ready to share them. She listened carefully and made notes, not wanting to judge or intimidate or compare everything to the way the previous butler would have done things. After all, that was Charles' role. She offered some insights, but did her very best to remain neutral.

Her mental list was endless and she wondered if she'd even make it home that night if it continued to snow. She'd had a spare room made up in the servants' quarters just in case but the thought of returning to a small bed in a small room…

She breathed deeply, slipping her glasses off as she closed the office door behind her. Charles had made fleeting comments of late, of pensions and alterations to the system, passing judgements over the top of his paper of an evening.

She wondered where he was now, and how his day was going.

She had only just sunk into her chair when there was a knock and Daisy came in carrying a tray.

"Mrs. Patmore said you hadn't stopped, so here is tea and fresh mince pies."

'Angel', she thought, but instead gave one of her trademark guarded smiles. "I am very grateful Daisy. And how are the menus looking for Christmas Eve?"

"I will have them done by Wednesday if that's suitable?"

"Perfectly so, 8 a.m. then, we shall meet in here to discuss your ideas."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes."

She had no sooner sat down and lifted her tea cup to her mouth than there was a breakage in the drawing room and she was making her way back upstairs again to berate whomever had done it. She was harsher with the girl than she ought to have been, sharper, in fact her ire hadn't been so drawn for many months. Marriage had softened her somewhat, alongside age, as it had him. But working kept her lively, focussed, and the brittle edge – though dulled – was still present.

Later there was guilt but she couldn't reverse, nor did she want to, not really.

She disappeared into Charles' pantry whilst dinner was being served and Thomas gone; it was a rude intrusion but she needed a second and she could stand there in the dark, with the fire in the hearth and the snow falling outside and see him there with his anxious expression and his eyes large and dark with trembling. Asking her to be his wife, two years since now, two years and the world had changed.

When it passed ten o'clock she resigned herself to sleeping upstairs and wondered how he would be, they had discussed the possibility if it were bad weather or she had too much to do and of course logically that all sounded fine. It was fine. Only it wasn't.

There had been no time for dinner and her hunger had subsided mostly due to overwork and a quick beating heart. Still, she wondered if there was any soup left and whether she could warm it through before bed.

A bark out in the yard distracted her and she frowned, shaking her head and stamping her way out of her office and back down the hallway to the door. Of course there was nobody readily around so she made her way out there herself, she had worked in the property all her adult life and there was no fear.

"Tia," she snapped, cradling her arms around herself as the ice crept indoors. "Come on, where are you? You shouldn't be out here this time of night."

A rising dark figure made her breath catch in her throat, and she clasped her hand to her chest.

"Charlie…?" His familiar face, the height, the measure of his body, came towards her across the yard. "What are you doing out here?"

"I came to walk you home."

"It's cold, and late."

"Both of these I know, it was either come to walk you home or sleep alone. I know which I prefer."

Her shoulders sagged, "Oh Charlie."

He stepped into the light, into the doorway, "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes," she breathed deeply. "I'll get my things."

The night was light, the pathway through the grounds and back to their cottage lit by the moon; Charles was right, almost a full moon and it was beautiful to be out in.

She held his arm tight, pressed close against his side and he smelled so good.

"Therefore we have decided that we can, and will, have a tree in the centre of the village."

"Good," she said gently, only half listening. "Can we slow a little?"

"Are you in pain?"

"Just tired, haven't stopped dashing about all day and my feet ache."

"It is late, otherwise I'd recommend a bath."

"Yes, tea and then bed I think."

Charles patted her arm, "Perhaps the bowl from the sink would be of use, you could soak your feet by the fire as we have our tea."

"Yes." She shuffled her scarf a little higher around her neck in an attempt to keep out the cold. "Goodness this walk keeps me fit, especially on days like this."

"It hardly stopped, we haven't had a winter like this for years." He paused, glancing down at her, "Do you need my coat?"

"No, I'll be fine, but thank you for asking."

"Tell me about your day."

"Barrow has new ideas for the Christmas party, Daisy is doing the menus for Christmas Eve…"

"Goodness. What new ideas?" He bristled.

"Just, slight changes, I don't recall everything right now. Anna is finding leaving the baby difficult I think, though she would never outright say."

"That's the choice you make I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose," she said gently. "What were you doing with that dog anyhow? I wasn't aware you had an affinity for them, you never liked them wandering the house."

"Hair. And I wouldn't say 'affinity', but she is a nice enough dog. A friendly type."

"Hm," she pursed her lips into a smile. "This is nice." She said.

"What?"

"Walking on a night like this with you. Heading home."

"It's warm, I made sure."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She would have liked to tell him he was turning into quite the house husband but didn't, daren't, they weren't quite there yet. "Is there any gingerbread left?"

"I believe there is. Yes."

"Wonderful."

Around her the snow continued to fall; white fairies dancing against a dark sky. She focussed in on the rhythmic crispness of their steps, perfectly in sync.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **E – Eggnog**

 **December 5** **th,** **1926**

There was a freckle, his favourite freckle, at the base of her neck. Right in the softness where there was a dent, a hollow, and the lines gathered ( _though he'd never tell her that_ ) and he could touch it. His index finger, under her chin, the two vertical lines about an inch in length halfway down, and then below that they crinkled into tiny wandering tissue paper. And there it was, the tip of his finger on it, he couldn't feel it of course but he knew it was there and nobody else did. Not a soul in the world knew but him and that did things to his stomach that were unexpected when thinking of a freckle.

Oh Sunday, glorious Sunday. The word was a whisper upon his breath, dancing through his mind like a piece of silk in the breeze.

A white room, crispy cold and warm beneath the bedsheets. Upon it the blanket she lovingly made for his birthday, patchworks of his favourite places and colours. There was more love sewn into that spread than he could ever put voice to in the English language. He wondered, at times, passingly, how long she'd loved him.

He continued to lie on his side watching her. Who would have thought, even twelve months ago, he would have ever found the time nor inclination to just lie and watch his wife sleep? His wife. There was pride in that, still. And there were things he could be doing, should be doing; the garden for one, there was a gathering of leaves beneath the hedgerow he kept meaning to clear away. He had verses to go through, preparations for the Christmas Eve service.

She breathed deeply, her chin shifting on the pillow, her chest rising and falling.

"Blessed Sunday," he said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. "Thank you for granting us slow waking mornings."

* * *

The service was well attended, despite the snow, and he was glad to see so many of the village there. Elsie stood a way off outside of the church, talking to other women and he watched her smile and laugh and missed her presence by his side in that warm cocoon of a bed.

"Wonderful job, Carson," Lord Grantham said, touching his old employee's arm. "Very nice arrangement in there, clearly this new role is suiting you. In fact, the entire village is decorated beautifully."

"Thank you, my lord."

"How are you these days, enjoying a slower pace of life?"

"I wouldn't quite say slower," he bristled at the implication, "but certainly different, in many ways. Will Lady Edith and Mary be returning for Christmas, that is, if my enquiring isn't too forward?"

"Of course it isn't, and yes, they both are. No doubt looking forward to seeing you too, you will attend the ball won't you?"

Charles gave a short nod of his head, "Mrs. Carson informs me there are to be some slight alterations to proceedings."

"Barrow has ideas, but he is settling down now it has to be said, settling into the role." He touched Carson's arm again, squeezing his coat, "Good to see you old chap. Take care."

He waited patiently as Elsie finished up with her acquaintances, hovering inside the church to keep warm.

She was brisk when she came in, pulling on her gloves, eyes shining. "That was a lovely service."

"I thought so too. Shall I walk with you to the house?"

"There's really little need, I can go with the rest of the staff." She caught hold of his elbow, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I will be back around four, if you want to wait to eat, I thought we might have roast chicken."

"Yes. I can wait."

"Good. Until later."

He watched her walk away, standing in the entrance to the church as the small group of servants crossed the snow-covered path that led back towards the Abbey; leaving him behind.

* * *

"Mr. Carson seemed a bit put out this morning," Mrs. Patmore said, watching the last of the dishes carried upstairs for lunch.

"Did he?" Elsie looked up from her order book, straining over the top of her glasses. "Why?"

"Just a feeling."

"He was fine at breakfast."

"You cooked?" Mrs. Patmore said, an eyebrow cocked.

Elsie pursed her lips, "We had scrambled eggs. They were very nice. He fetches them from over at Higham farm."

"That's a distance to walk."

"He likes it, walks miles every week."

"Bored?" The cook asked, warming the teapot.

"No, I don't think –, he just likes to walk, the fresh air and such."

"And what's he doing today?"

"Relaxing I suppose, it is Sunday, the rest of the world don't follow our routine.

"Lucky them. Not thinking of joining him, are you? Tea?"

"Yes please, and in what way?"

"Having every Sunday off?"

She took hold of her teacup, "And would there be to run things?" She snapped, turning on her heel and returning to her office.

* * *

Charles' days of drinking were resigned to the dark corners of his mind, the history book of his youth. Yet as he took a leisurely stroll around the village before heading home he was drawn to the Grantham Arms for no other reason than it looked warm and inhabited.

He had been before of course, and knew his way inside. Once there though there was a slight fuss, a decision over what to order; not sherry in a situation like this, a bar crowded with gentleman having a swift one before heading home for lunch and an afternoon snooze. Perhaps it didn't suit him at all but he couldn't very well leave now he'd arrived.

He ordered a half pint of bitter and perched himself at the end of the bar where he had a bit of space to gaze around and watch over proceedings. He had never been entirely comfortable in these places, even as a young man, and that feeling of not quite fitting in but looking in remained.

"We don't see you in here," the barman said, Jack was around Charles' age and there the similarity ended. He was rough and coarse and salt-of-the-earth. Charles was smooth, refined and could often be judgemental.

"Thought I'd warm up before the walk home."

"The wife making dinner, is she?"

"Later perhaps. She will be." He puffed out his chest. "Quite a gathering in here."

"Ay, we do alright. Not missing your role are you?" Jack asked, and Charles wondered of his views on him, the haughty butler who was still managing to lord it over everyone now he was on the council.

"At times," he admitted, deciding it was better to be honest. "The feeling of being useful."

"Make thaself useful here, pour some pints."

Charles's eyebrows shot up, "I would have no idea."

"Thought your lot was trained in service."

"Yes, pouring wine, decanting, choose the right measure for the right meal."

Jack nodded, as if he understood. "Fancy."

"I am not at all sure any of your clientele would welcome a drop of sherry."

"Ah you never know, funny lot. Someone asked for eggnog the other evening, for his lady friend, never heard of it in here."

Charles nodded, "Popular with his Lordship's guests at Christmas but a little too rich for my tastes. I would simply prefer the whisky."

"You ever make it?"

"Once or twice," he lied.

"Make yourself useful then," Jack said, lifting up the hatch.

"You have the ingredients?"

"I won't know until tha tells me what they are."

* * *

The lounge crackled with firelight and whispers of roast chicken, Charles snoring in his chair and Elsie in hers working on Becky's scarf. She yawned, covering her mouth, sliding off her glasses and putting them aside. The light was getting too poor to work now and her eyes felt sore as she rubbed them.

She watched her husband for a moment, how his great lumbering body filled the chair. The red cheeks, that furrowed brow that never seemed to disappear. The muttering as he breathed in and out.

After a while she left him by the fire, putting away her knitting and retreating to the kitchen to tidy away the last of the dishes. Things were better now, not perfect but better, they had found their roles and a way to live together and it was working. There were things she still half resented but she was a wife now and that meant she had to accept certain truths, her having to be a domestic goddess one of them.

"You're awake," she said, startled when he came in behind her.

"Yes."

He stood watching her wash the dishes, slightly heavy headed from the slowly dispersing sleep.

"Charlie, may I ask you something?"

"Of course."

She looked at his reflection in the kitchen window, "You are alright, aren't you? Happy?"

"Of course I am, what a foolish question." He opened the fridge and took out a pint milk bottle filled with a creamy liquid. "I believe I may have made a new friend today."

"Really?" She dried her hands on the dishcloth. "Where?"

"In the pub."

She almost choked. "The…?"

"Pub. The Grantham Arms. Jolly nice chap who runs things, taught him how to make Eggnog."

Her eyes were wide, incredulous, she wondered if he was drunk. "Oh."

"There's some in the bottle for us, thought we might have a drop by the fire."

"Yes, let's."

She followed him back to the lounge and settled in her chair again.

"Sunday is my favourite day," he proclaimed, pouring their drinks.

"Really? You used to hate it. Said it was a waste of hours full of slow moving people with no incentive to do anything."

"Yes well," he murmured, "things change. I am a married man now, there is new perspective."

"Oh, and what would that be."

"Love, Mrs. Hughes, love."

She blushed, "Oh," and sipped the luxurious drink. "It's nice to have a new perspective I suppose."

"Lots of them. Your freckle for one."

She frowned and laughed at the same time, "My what?"

"Your beautiful freckle," he said with a chuckle and she wondered again just how many half pints of bitter he had sampled.

He shuffled his chair closer to the fire, closer to hers, sipping his eggnog and telling her all about that wonderful perfect spot in the hollow of her neck.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **F – Fire**

 **December 6** **th,** **1926**

"… _light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul."_

"You're soaking," Charles said as he opened the front door and watched Elsie down the path to their cottage door. "I didn't think to have seen you. Come on." He takes her arm as she comes in, moving behind her to slide her coat off. "It's really coming down."

"Yes," she removed her hat, shaking the melted snowflakes from her hair. "Her ladyship sent Anna and I home whilst we could still manage it."

"I would have come to help."

"I know," she handed him her basket. "Here, you could help me with this."

"Happy to, rather dull day."

"Oh?"

"I have never read so much in my entire life."

"I can think of nothing better than a day spent inside reading by the fire."

He huffed, "Yes, well. Rather different when you have no choice."

"Oh darling," she said softly, coming to stand beside him and patting his hand as he emptied the food from her basket. "My apologies. I'm short tempered."

"No harm."

She nodded, "There are potatoes in the pantry, should you want to peel them, be a help. I'll prepare the meat, vegetables, I thought we'd have stew."

"Good idea. Nice and warming."

"I can make dumplings," she rolled up her sleeves, her fingertips defrosting thanks to the hearty fire he had burning in the lounge. "I can make good dumplings, oddly enough."

"There's port, perhaps a drop in the sauce?"

"Yes, why not. Ghastly weather outdoors, let's make a pot of stew and enjoy it for days to come."

* * *

She bathed as it simmered; lying still in the bath and closing her eyes for a moment. The ice was in her bones and Charles had poured her a stiff drink and filled the tub, though she had added a few drops of the lavender oil Beryl had gifted her the previous Christmas.

Relaxing she sighed in pleasure, lifting her legs slightly, the water silky against her thighs. It made her stomach shift, something deep and tangible, and her eyes shot open at the sensation. She clamped her legs together and pulled herself to sit; she was a wife and an old one at that. Mrs. Hughes never had such temptations.

Charles tapped against the door some time later, "Warmed a towel for you," he said, hanging it on the handle.

"Thank you," she called in return, automatically reaching to cover her breasts, which was ridiculous really, for he had seen her naked several times but always in the dark, always in their bed beneath the sheets.

When she heard him downstairs, humming below her, she got out and took the towel from outside the door and quickly dried her body.

There was some debate in the bedroom on what to wear. Had she been alone she might have put her nightwear on, but then Charles might not approve. She was standing wrapped in her robe when he came in.

"Oh, sorry, wasn't sure you were out."

She pulled her robe tighter, keenly aware of her nudity beneath the material, of the damp towel on the chair.

"Won't be a second."

"You're dressing." He loosened his collar, slid out his tie, opened the top buttons. "It's chilly up here. I shall have to light another fire for bed but it means getting to the outhouse for coal."

"Don't," she said, "We can make do with the one downstairs." She breathed deeply. "The truth is I was debating how terrible it would be to put my nightclothes on, how disrespectful you might find that at dinner."

* * *

They sat by the fire with their bowls of stew, one on each chair facing the warmth. Charles lifted a pyjama clad leg to push a log further in, quickly pulling back before any flying embers could catch his slipper.

"Good dumplings," he said.

"I did say. Grandma Hughes taught me, I remember that well."

"Your Gran was a good cook?"

"A hearty one, traditional."

"Mine too."

They sat in silence for a while after, watching the fire, the snow piling up outside.

"It has to stop soon," he said.

"Times like this I wish I had a rocking chair," she replied.

The dishes were left by the sink waiting to be rinsed; they'd had a glass of red wine and now Charles poured two more. It made him brave.

When Elsie passed him, squeezing between his body and the table where he stood pouring the wine, he felt the warmth of her body and it made him swoon – he never thought men could. Usually when he had feelings, thoughts, such as this he'd mention something of an early night or simply take himself up to bed at a suitable hour and she'd follow and things would progress.

But tonight the world was frosted over. And they were right there in their little cocoon by the fire and he wanted to stay. It was magical. Enchanting. Like being in a snow globe.

He kissed her when he passed her wine across, lingered with it so she knew and then parted, both sipping the rich liquid. Then he leant in again and she returned it and he felt his dreams coming true.

He spilled his wine on his pyjama shirt in his haste and she laughed at his clumsiness, the still damp tendrils of her hair falling loose from the pins she'd put in.

Putting his glass aside Charles cursed the mess.

"Maybe you should take it off," she bravely suggested, "I could clean it some."

He mumbled, fumbled, still new to all this. With no words to voice his needs, or even how to explain to himself what he wanted, he allows her to unbutton his top. He watches as her fingers move from one white button to the next, at the striped material falling open; there should be cool air on his skin but instead it's her breath.

He wishes what was in his heart could find way to his head, to his throat, to tell her of the throbbing need she brought to him. There had been similar feelings in his youth, he was a virgin but no stranger to lust, and to finally be able to love her in such a way.

Charles sucked in a breath when her heads brushed over his shoulders, pushing the material aside. "It shouldn't take much," she had said and then he lost control.

There were so words to find so instead he pulled her to him with such passion she gasped into his mouth, his hands were everywhere at once and it made her heady with desire. _Had it been like this before?_

She dropped his shirt to the floor.

"Charlie," she breathed, tilting her head back as he kissed her neck, "in the unlikely event somebody should appear at our door perhaps we should retire."

"I want you here," he said, and she doubted he had ever been so clear or strong. He looked at her, one hand holding her head, his fingers threading through her hair, the other on the curve of her back. "Is it too forward of me?" For he had shocked himself with his words; where had this man come from? A friend, a husband, a lover.

"We are husband and wife," she offered, thinking of the risqué books she'd consumed over the years.

He kissed her again, grateful for her kind, gentle nature. Unbelieving still of the fact she loved him in return, the full force of it hitting him in unexpected moments.

He bid her to move, and then he was on his knees and looking up at her – expectantly and full of wonder.

"Wait," she said, and his deflated expression caught her heart. She left him only briefly to turn off lamps and then it was better, then it was comfortable. The orange light of the fire. His chest glowed golden and she left her hands on his shoulders for longer than was necessary. She had never fully taken the time before to appreciate physically who he was, this man that shared her life, her heart. Being married and being brave did not always go hand-in-hand, but they were getting there. Intimacy, after so very many years of loneliness and singledom and tiny frozen bedrooms, was not easy to adopt.

With forethought he used the blankets from their chairs, laid her down on pillows, took his time. The pad of his thumb on that spot at the base of her neck before he'd even undressed her.

"My darling, darling wife," he was reverent. There was all the time in the world. Tiptoeing fingertips down her chest, finding the lace that held the top of her nightgown together; buttons and ties and layers that had kept her separate from him for far too long.

She whispered something when he was between her thighs, and he could feel the heat of the fire on his back and in his loins and her voice like thick honey at the back of his throat.

Elsie. Two syllables. El – sie, and the word slipped over his tongue as a leaf dances upon a stream. He tiptoed over her name time and again, as his fingers did the same to her skin, losing himself in her, in where they were and what they were doing.

Her groan brought him to his senses and he had a sudden need to please her, to make her happy, to impart some of the joy in his heart to hers. For a fraction of it could cure the world's ails.

Hands on her hips and stilled movements made her lift her head from their makeshift bed and eye him curiously. Even more so when he guided her movements, both wide-eyed, they should have been embarrassed, she should have stopped him because it was different, but oh it felt so good. Wondrously so.

He fell awkwardly onto his back, and she was on top of him, ungainly at first as her legs moved into a position she had never known; she pressed against his chest, ashamed of him seeing her body naked and up close.

But when he moved his hips she cried out. It touched somewhere inside she'd never felt before.

And then the clumsiness was gone because she wanted more of that deliciousness, longed for it, and her body found ways of living she'd never even dreamt of. How perfect nature was. To bring two people together in such a way with no guidance other than the sweetest of delights.

The deep dark aching of loneliness was banished and the fire burned.

* * *

Lying on her side facing the fire, Elsie breathed deeply, exhaling slow and steady. _So this was what marriage was._

Her head rested on Charles' arm offering a pillow, his other arm over her waist, her bare chest against her bare back. How decadent. How unexpectedly wonderful.

His mouth was on the back of her head, kissing her hair, his fingers stroking her skin where he held her beneath the blanket.

"May I ask something," she whispers, turning her head slightly, only when her face is by his she is silenced by his kisses. His mouth on hers, soft, pressing and insistent. She strains her neck, hungry to return his touch, her hair trapped between them.

She smiles, a shy giggle at the back of her throat and her hand pressing round to his upper chest.

His face is joyous, enraptured as he stares down at her. "Sorry."

"Don't be," she says lightly, "I'm rather enjoying your attentions. If that's quite right of me to say."

"I like to hear how you feel," his voice is low, eyes dark in the firelight.

"Overwhelmed," she whispers, "cherished. Loved." She bites down on her lip, watching his eyes follow her movement, "You?"

"Joyous." It is simple and true. "What did you want to ask?" He kisses her forehead, loosening his hold a little as she turns onto her back to look up him, rearranging her legs, her arms, brushing her hair back.

"Goodness, what a mess I am."

"What perfection," he says, propped up on his arm now to look her over. A red-faced grin, a giddiness that belays his age. He can see his pyjamas on the sofa and he feels decidedly mischievous over their actions, despite their age, their marriage, and the fact they're alone in their home. "Ask me anything," he kisses her nose, unable to stop touching her, unwilling to break their contact for even a moment.

"Something I thought of, as we were preparing dinner together."

"Go on," he settles down beside her again, holding onto her – he can't remember the last time he smiled so much, so freely – perhaps their wedding night.

"Was there ever a moment where you wondered if you had made a mistake?"

He frowned, "In life?"

"With us," she felt her cheeks warm as his expression changed.

"Only a concern we hadn't done it years ago." His hand flattened on her belly, "Why, did you?"

"Remember at the start, how terrible my cooking was?"

"It wasn't that –,"

"You don't have to pretend."

"Well," he sighed, "that was never your specialism." His hand started to move again, his palm ghosting over her ribcage, beneath her breasts, how she shivered when the side of his thumbs touched the underside. He seemed to like this place best, she'd noticed when they were curled up together in bed his hand would hover there. Nervous in the beginning, testing and wondering if she minded, and when she didn't, leaving his hand there for longer, allowing his fingers to trace that wonderful, glorious curve, soft as silk, heavy, whole.

It made her feel like a woman.

He'd never mentioned the scar. Clearly, it didn't bother him.

"You felt it was a mistake?" He asked hesitantly; there had been a time where he'd wondered. He sighed heavily, his voice shaking at the sudden coarse of emotion, "Please don't say you regretted marrying me."

She pursed her lips, her nose scrunching as she dipped her chin down shyly, "The cooking," she admitted, "it was… difficult…"

"Cooking is difficult. Mrs. Patmore makes it look easy."

"No, I mean, not just that, not just the act of putting it together but you, Charles, do you understand?"

"I made it difficult?"

"It doesn't matter now, because things are wonderful and I think, well," she smiled slightly, "I know that we are both very happy."

"Deliriously so. There aren't words," he admitted. He reached for her hands, kissing them together, worshipping, "I apologise, if I ever hurt you." He looked earnestly to her face, "You know, I am clumsy and restrained, it has always been so. I have never quite been able to find the words to get what's in here," he touched his chest, "out."

She lifted a hand out of his, touching his face, up to the glorious thick curl of his hair. "There is no need, we are finding our way. Even after a year, we are still finding it."

"And this is… good?"

"Good and right. It just made me reflect on it, tonight, how I never told you back then how I felt."

"And now you would?"

"I hope so."

"As do I…"

She squeezed his fingers, "I do love you, Charlie, with all my soul. And I do hope we can share anything of how we feel. The good and the bad."

He nodded, his eyes heavy from the warmth of the room and the intensity of their exchanges. "And I love you. You are the fire in my life, my darling sweet Elsie."


	7. Chapter 7

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **G - Gift**

 **December 7** **th,** **1926**

"Are you going to linger here all day?" Elsie said, coming into her parlour to find Charles still occupying an armchair and reading his Lordship's breakfast paper.

"Why ever not?" He glanced over the top of his glasses at her, lowering the paper a little and his breaking into a grin as he took in her form, an armful of linen and that straight, firm back.

"And you can't stop grinning at me too," she laid the linen on her desk and started to sort through it. "Honestly, if anyone saw that lapsidasicle expression."

"They would think I am a contended man."

She raised her eyebrows at him, giving him a pointed look whilst inwardly overjoyed at his happiness.

"Surely you have chores."

"Half the village is closed down," he folded the paper in half. "Unless you have something I can help you with."

"I'm labelling which need repairs and setting them aside for a quiet day in January to occupy my staff. Should you wish to help."

He sighed, "Not really. Any glasses to polish?"

"Why don't you check the wine cellar?"

"Already done, just waiting for your menus and then I'll make the wine choices."

She smiled at that, "Choose something wonderful for the two of us perhaps, for _our_ Christmas Day, I should say night." She piled the linin into a cupboard, "We will eat here at lunchtime again?"

"Of course, and then maybe a light supper for just the two of us later in the day. Perhaps open our presents then?"

"I have to wait all day," she teased. "How cruel."

"Elsie," he warned, watching as she stretched to reach down something from the top shelf. "Should I help?"

"I'm fine," she carried the box down, almost tripping over his feet as she went to set it down on the floor. "How many mince pies have you had?"

"One."

She glared at him as she knelt on the rug.

"Three." He grudgingly admitted. "But it's cold out."

"And mince pies keep you warm, do they?" She huffed as she searched in the box for her menus from the previous few years.

"Course, comfort."

"You can't hide in here all day."

"Not distracting you, just reading my paper. Having a cup of tea. Is my company annoying?"

She pushed against the chair to get up to her feet clutching the menus, "I need to go through these alongside Daisy's, make sure nothing is too similar too close together."

"What does Thomas have planned for this ball?"

She rolled her eyes, "Mr. Barrow now. And why don't you ask him?"

"I will not." He got abruptly to his feet, pacing the room, standing by the high window and staring out of the frozen pane to the frozen grounds. When he started whistling she dropped one of her books loudly to the desk and he stopped.

"Charles," she said again, staring at his back. "Why not get started on our decorations, back at the cottage? We haven't done it yet."

He frowned, "That's my job?"

She glared at him again, "Why? Is that yet another one on my list?"

"You know what I mean, we should do it together."

"I suppose," she carried the box back over to the top shelf of her cupboard, placing it down, turning to return to her desk and bumping into him. "Oh, for goodness sake, Charles, you're under my feet."

"Well I am sorry to be an issue."

"That's not what I mean. You surely can't be happy in here all day, with little to do, it's not in your nature."

He opened his mouth to admit he felt a bit useless when there was a knock and Molesley came in.

"Oh, sorry to disturb. Mrs. Carson, Mr. Carson. Didn't realise you were here."

"He's on his way home," she said pointedly. "What can I do for you?"

"Just letting you know I'm taking a couple of the boys with me, Mr. Barrow is sending us into town to help clear the road."

"Now there you go," Elsie said, turning back to Charles. "Something helpful."

His eyes narrowed, _he was once a grand Butler, now clearing roads._ "Yes, I suppose."

"You could supervise," she suggested and Molesley grimaced, unseen by them both. "In your new role as community whatsit. Thank you Mr. Molesley, make sure the boys wrap up warm."

Once the door closed Charles flounced back to his chair, "Clearing roads," he exclaimed, "honestly."

"I told you, supervise."

"Nobody wants me to, not now."

Her heart clutched at that, "Sweetheart," she rested her hand on his shoulder, found the right words to convince him, to soothe his ego. "A man with as much natural leadership as yourself would be wrong not to supervise, instruct… get the job done quicker."

"And done correctly."

"Exactly."

He looked up at her, "Should I turn by here later? Walk you home?"

"I'll be fine," she said quickly, "I will see you at home tonight."

He got to his feet, slapping the chair arms, "Right you are."

She slipped his scarf around his neck, "Now. Keep warm, and don't do too much, remember you aren't twenty-five."

"Yes, yes." He found his coat, sneaking another mince pie from the plate and into his pocket when she wasn't looking. "Well, have a good day."

"I'm sure I will," she said, ushering him toward the door. "Bye love."

"Goodbye," he kissed her cheek, and set off after Molesley.

* * *

"Very grateful for it Mr. Carson," Mrs. Greenwood said, hovering by her front door and leaning her bent body against a wooden cane. "Not that I have many visitors these days mind. Always grateful to the grange, always grateful of your wife sending the hampers. She's very kind."

"She is indeed." Truth be told he had never really been one for casual chatter, especially not to the local residents. He preferred to keep to himself, stay focussed on his job and his immediate acquaintances. There seemed little need for it all really, and, after all, Elsie was so much better at feigning interest. However, standing there and catching a glimpse inside the old woman's damp terrace brought affection, sympathy wormed its way into his heart. There but for the grace of God went he, old, alone, lonely. "Anything else I might help you with, Mrs. Greenwood? The fire perhaps, should I build it up?"

"Oh, no need," she batted the idea away with her free hand.

"Do you have enough coal, firewood?"

The old woman cast a glance behind her to the grey lounge, "Ran out a few days ago, but it's been cosy enough."

Charles knew that was a lie; he'd woken up in the early hours asleep on the lounge floor with Elsie's head on his chest, a dwindling fire and a biting chill in the room. He had woken her, bid her to go to bed, and she'd stumbled her way upstairs wrapped in a blanket. Luckily, he was prepared and all the fires in reasonable condition, he managed to get a spark with just paper and got one burning in the bedroom before he climbed into bed beside her. Immediate sleep.

"Let me help," he said, "I will gather resources, that is if you don't mind, and get you in tiptop condition."

He trudged home, the air pinching his cheeks after a couple of hours out in the snow. There were logs enough in the outhouse and he loaded them onto his wheelbarrow, wondering just how bad his back would be after pushing it back through the snowy streets. They could spare a bag of coal too so he loaded that on. Come to think of it they could probably spare food. He searched the cupboards until he found a suitable old biscuit tin and laid mince pies inside, fresh ones Elsie had brought home only two days since. There was enough stew for days so he poured some into a small pan, wedged it between the logs and secured it with two of Elsie's aprons he found in a drawer. He'd have to be careful, take his time.

* * *

"You needn't 'av, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Greenwood fussed, ecstatic as he set to make a fire and the stew warmed on the hob in the kitchen.

"Nonsense, it's winter, almost Christmas. And you just ask if you need anything," he piled the logs high, settled back on a chair as he watched it start to flicker. "Consider it a gift."

"I do indeed, I do indeed." The old lady wobbled on her cane as she made to sit on the chair at the corner of the room, by the front window, a view to the world. "So very kind of you both. I don't get out much you see, certainly not in this kind of weather."

"I understand." He knew her boy had been killed in the war, her husband had died a good ten years before. It struck him how he had never really considered poverty on his doorstep, but of course there it was, and he was blessed by God to have a good home and a good wife. "As I say, anything you need. Look it's getting going now, should soon have this place warmed through."

She chuckled, "Thank you. Fancy, a man about the house, and a butler at that."

"Well, I don't know." He got to his feet. "I'll check on that stew."

"Now don't put yourself out –," she made to stand, her frail body struggling.

"Don't you bother yourself, I can get it."

The kitchen was cluttered with old furniture and he pondered briefly of bringing Elsie here come her next afternoon off, she would have this place spick and span in no time. He found a bowl, filled it half full and carried it through to the hungry woman.

"You found your way around," she said, taking a hearty spoonful.

"Yes, years of training. May I enquire as to the belongings in there?"

"Been trying to clean it for years, never get it done. Happen you might want anything, help yourself."

Charles didn't think any the rubbish was worth more than the scrap man but he didn't want to appear rude. He wandered in and took a cursory look before going back to the lounge.

"That rocking chair…?" He asked.

"Yes, take it, take it, by all means."

"You don't have need of it?"

She had already eaten half of the bowl of stew. "Not at all, been in there for donkeys years. Have it. A thank you." She smiled. "A gift."

"Well, I was perhaps thinking… for Mrs. Carson you see. Bit of a surprise."

She tapped the side of her nose, "Secret's safe."

* * *

He lumbered the creaking chair home perched on the barrow, feeling foolish and praying he wouldn't bump into anyone he knew. It was dark by then though and the snow refreezing which kept people indoors.

Elsie never went in to the outhouse, she had no need and besides it was Charles' domain; so, he hid the chair there. He would assess it come the following morn, perhaps it just needed a clean and tidy. Or maybe he could paint it, find a nice cushion, tighten up the bolts. Be just the ticket.

"Charlie?" Elsie called from the kitchen and he hurried out, locking the door behind him and pocketing the key.

"That time already?" He said, coming indoors. "Good day?"

"Yes, I suppose. And yours, how was the clearing? Mr. Moseley said he lost sight of you."

He took her coat and hung it, watched as she rinsed her hands in warm water.

"Do you know I happened to get talking to Mrs. Greenwood."

"Oh, that lovely old lady?"

"She is, isn't she? In fact, well, I rather helped her out."

Elsie took the pan of stew from the larder, "Have you been eating this?"

"I took some for her, and logs, coal, mince pies too before you chide me."

She smiled softly, "My dear, that's awfully kind of you."

"She was at a loss," he shrugged, "seemed the right thing to do."

"I always knew you had a good heart behind all that bravado." She lit the stove, "I'll change before we eat. Are you alright?"

He stretched his hand, "The cold weather, you see." He pointed out.

"I see," she took his hand in hers, rubbing the palm with her thumb. "Sorry if I was short this morning."

"Not at all."

"I brought treacle sponge, call it a peace offering."

"My favourite."

"I know. That any better?"

"A little." He watched her face, took in her height, the wonderful fragrance she always seemed to carry with her. "I managed to get a gift today."

"Oh? Sounds like you were giving them out too, quite the Father Christmas."

"Don't quip anything about round bellies," he huffed then they both laughed. "And I meant I got one for you, a gift."

Her eyes widened, "How thoughtful." She imagined another book, at a push a new shawl, he wasn't all that adventurous. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, "Being here with you will be gift enough."

"Amen to that."


	8. Chapter 8

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **H – Holly and Ivy**

 **December 8** **th,** **1926**

"Well, good morning Mr. Robin," Elsie said, catching sight of the young bird that perched on the back of the bench in the yard. "You look comfortable there." She shifted her basket up one arm, holding out a leather gloved hand towards the little creature. "Will you let me say hello, hmm?"

The bird lifted its beak, chirped and scuttled down the bench a little as Elsie got closer.

"Shy? Oh well, if I remember I'll throw the toast crumbs out later."

She left the bird behind and unlocked the back door, making her way to her parlour, turning on the lights and setting about her usual morning routine. Her coat and hat put away, her tasks for the order of the day laid out in a list on the desk, diligently prepared every night before she went home.

Her heels clattered down the cobbled hallway and she shivered, there was a chill inside, she would send someone to check all the windows and doors were fastened tight.

"Good morning," she said to those in the kitchen. "How are we all today?"

"Fancy free, not as happy as you are clearly." Beryl replied, kneading bread in one smooth sweeping motion. "What happened?"

"Nothing, I'm just glad to see the sunshine this morning, perhaps the snow will melt away."

"If we're lucky. Need to talk to you later, trouble getting decent spices at the moment."

"Can we not source them elsewhere?"

"Happen we can but you need to sign off on it."

Elsie waved a hand, "Oh alright, we'll discuss it after breakfast." She glanced to the clock, "They'll be ringing soon, I best get on."

* * *

"Unfortunately, there's not much we can do, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Wigan said, taking the pile of neatly addressed envelopes from his hand and putting stamps on. "There is no money in the kitty."

Charles wrung his hands together, feeling the chill in the ends of his fingers and the familiar tingling sensation starting. "It seems a wretched business," he said. "That as a village we aren't doing more."

"This is something you're interested in?"

He lifted his chin, frowning, "Why? Should I not be?"

"Not something I associated with you. Sympathy for the poor and needy."

"Yes well," he cleared his throat, looked away from her accusatory glance, "circumstances change. I have recently had experience with it, that is all."

"Perhaps you could talk to his Lordship, that is, if you still have his ear."

Charles snatched his letters back, she really was a most disagreeable woman at times. "I'll post these outside, thank you."

"Right you are. Good day Mr. Carson, pass on my regards to your wife."

He tipped his hat, "Good day."

Reluctantly, he walked back home, the scheduled meeting of the committee had been cancelled due to the weather – a decision he wouldn't have made and certainly hadn't been informed of until he got there – so there was little else to do.

He had planned to work on the chair anyhow and with an extra hour or two now he might as well get a head start. There was green paint in the shed and, after mulling it over, he decided Elsie liked that colour, he knew she had a dark green coat anyhow. It would look wonderful if he could purchase a red cushion for the seat.

There hadn't been a tool in his hand for many a year but somehow he managed to find his way around the shed and tighten the mechanisms; he gingerly perched on the edge of the rocking chair and it took his weight, thankfully, so all seemed to be progressing. An old apron was donned for the first coat, the floor covered in newspaper, and he prayed Elsie wouldn't ask questions or venture down the garden. It would take three coverings he reckoned, plenty of time to get it looking attractive enough for their parlour. And to find a pillow, that was a more difficult task.

* * *

"Where is Mr. Carson today?" Beryl asked, sitting across from Elsie at her small table and sipping tea.

"I believe he has his meeting, the committee."

"He's enjoying that, isn't he?" Beryl smiled knowingly.

"I'll say. A chance to keep himself prominent." She felt a stab of guilt for that. "I don't blame him, he has found it difficult, stepping back. Especially with my still working."

Beryl sighed, "There comes a time when we all have to step back. Can't drop dead on the job."

"You have many bookings, this time of year?"

"Christmas, yes. Then it'll be quiet no doubt til this weather picks up again, springtime."

"I long for it."

"And you, a Scottish lass."

Elsie wrinkled her nose, "Never was one for the cold. It has its benefits I suppose," she smiled wistfully into her teacup, remembering the blazing fire and becoming a woman all over again in front of it two nights since.

"That was an odd look," Beryl chuckled, finishing her tea and getting to her feet. "Right, must get on."

"Right you are. How is Daisy, by the way, still rebutting Andy?"

"She is. Not that I'm one to chide her having spent my life as a single woman, but really, he is a lovely young man who seems to dote on her."

"You can't really ask for anything more," Elsie admitted getting to her feet.

On her desk was a photo of their wedding day and she took a few seconds to look and remember before continuing with her day's work.

* * *

"Oh goodness!" Elsie jumped when she opened the door, almost dropping the bag in her hand. "I didn't realise you were here."

Charles put aside the book he'd been reading, "Didn't want to disturb. Thought I'd just tuck myself away."

"You couldn't 'tuck away' anywhere." She placed the bag on her desk. "How has your day been?"

"Reflective."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he pointed with his glasses, "What have you got there?"

"It was just on the buggy when he delivered the flowers," she opened the bag, "thought I'd get some for above the fireplace in the cottage."

"Holly?" He said, glancing up. "It'll look well."

"I'll do it tonight after dinner." She put the bag aside, hanging it by her coat. "What are you reading?"

"One from your shelf, Bleak House."

Her eyes widened, "You don't usually like Dickens. Not an uplifting one for a winter's night."

"No, but as I said, I've been thinking."

"Go on, or should I get tea first? Are you cold from the walk?" She touched his forehead.

"A sherry might be nice."

She poured two glasses and sat beside him, reminded of their long drawn out years of conversations just like this; having to part and going to bed alone with a strange feeling of not quite finishing what needed to be said.

"Mrs. Greenwood got me thinking about how we live in this small village, we believe we know everyone and everything in it."

She sucked the sherry from her tongue, "Yes?"

"And, well, it seems a damned way of things Elsie that people are in a position such as she. Starving and cold, waiting to die and for somebody to notice they aren't in church one Sunday."

"This social caring Carson is a side I haven't oft seen before."

He sat upright, puffing out his chest as if he still wore the starched shirt and tails. "I'm involved in the village now, leading a lot of the new initiatives, as old and past it as I might be."

She touched his hand where it rested on the arm of the chair, "Nobody thinks that."

"I might be able to do a good job, have an impact, in some small way."

"You have always done a good job," she assured him, "and you have had impact. Not least upon my life."

He moved his head to closer to hers, their knees touching. "Do you know, holly remains green the year through."

"Yes, I did."

"One of my favourites for that reason, and the elegant shape of the leaves. It never bends, never breaks despite the storms it weathers."

"Perhaps," she said softly, "like a long-cherished love."

"Perhaps."

She dared to rest her hand on his knee, "What shall you do then, for those less fortunate?"

"I was thinking of your hampers –,"

" –Oh, I only send three or four a year."

"I know. What I thought was, what if we could make more, distribute more?"

"We don't have the funds."

"No, but could we? Mightn't we?"

She shrugged, "A fundraiser?"

"I don't know. You know how I feel about begging for money, it isn't right." He slapped one leg with his free hand, "Forget the whole notion."

"No, don't. It's a lovely idea and you are good at bringing people together, I know you don't like to think it. But the memorial for one, that worked so well, I was so very proud."

"You never said."

"One doesn't." She got to her feet. "Shall I get my coat, we can walk home?"

He nodded, pondering what to do.

* * *

"Did you manage to speak to Tommy in the village about our light?"

"I forgot," he admitted, "I will tomorrow. It's a nuisance without it at the front door."

"I know."

"I feel the cold in my bones tonight," she admitted and he held her closer. "Mrs. Patmore said something interesting today."

He doubted that very much but listened anyway.

"About there coming a time when we all need to retire. When we're ready for it."

"And, are you ready for it?"

"I'm not sure," she said gently, waiting as he pushed open the gate and helped her through. "I have worked all my life, what would I do without it?" She reflected on the absurdity of her statement considering who she was with. "Also, and don't take this… don't get how you do."

"What does that mean?"

"I wouldn't want to be a burden, what with my financial situation and yours."

"Now you can stop that, we are married. All my worldly goods."

"Yes, only I don't seem to have very many."

"Being you is enough."

She smiled at that, her eyes feeling warm with tears at his occasional sentimental statement.

"The question is, I suppose, whether you're ready. I don't think I would have ever left had it not been for my hands."

"No…" And in a way perhaps it was good he had to, because there was an entirely new side of Charles Carson emerging as time went on.

"But you don't have to. Of course, if you did we would be fine, financially, we have the income from the rental. Our pensions."

"Yes," trust Charles to think practically. She would change the subject, come back to it another time. "I had a thought about your fundraising."

"Yes?"

"This ball his lordship is holding," she slipped a little and Charles caught her arm and held her tighter, keeping her upright. "They'll all be rich folk there."

"I can't ask them for donations!" He exclaimed.

"No, you can't. But his Lordship could, a small donation, or perhaps sell tickets for the ball."

He shook his head, "You're spending too much time with Barrow. Honestly."

"Well, you never know."

"Ow," he snapped when the bag she was carrying caught his leg. "That holly."

She laughed to herself, moving the bag to the other arm and humming as they walked in the moonlight.

" _The holly and the ivy_ ," Charles started to sing along in his grumbling voice. " _When they are both full grown_."

" _Of all the trees that are in the wood the holly bears the crown_." They sang together, enjoying the solitude of a winter night and an easy walk together.


	9. Chapter 9

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **I – Ice**

 **December 9** **th,** **1926**

 _Later, he trembled as she undressed him, tenderly and silently removing each soaked item of clothing that clung to his skin. He was pale, like the ice itself, and, though she wasn't one for religious fervour, she prayed for his wellbeing._

" _We'll soon have you warmed up," she said, her voice not betraying her fears that perhaps they wouldn't. "Get you into the bath first."_

 _He nodded, he would have protested and stood, determined to do it himself, but the truth was he didn't mind her attentions and he was still in shock._

" _Come," she said, tapping his bare shoulder. "You do the rest, I'll fill the bath."_

 _She found her lavender oil and added it to the water; he'd consider it too female but she thought it might soothe him some. That and a drop of brandy, short and sharp._

 _He wrapped a towel around his waist before she turned to face him, hiding himself from her. There was a nasty cut on his arm which she'd bathed but the angry red line stood out as he was still so pale._

" _Here we go," she said, "you can get in?"_

 _He nodded._

" _Good," she dried her hands on a towel. "I'll let you then…" she indicated the bath, "…and be right back."_

* * *

Charles had started the day well. A second coat of paint on the chair, the snow was melting so it was a brisker walk into the village. He felt healthy, pink cheeks, a red nose and whistling a little when he was alone and passing the edge of the woods that surrounded the estate.

The bakery was open so he purchased fresh bread and two iced buns as he knew how much Elsie enjoyed them.

In the square children were back, school closed, rushing about with makeshift sledges. He stood back, frowning at their chatter, but when he saw the joy in their faces he thought of Lady Mary's children – the first time George saw the snow, and now, little Violet only just six months old and so very beautiful. So like her mother at that age.

In the butchers he checked their order for Christmas week, determined they too should enjoy the festivities. Their first Christmas together had been coloured by his momentous decision to step back and his concerns over his health, the fear he would be little more than useless to her. He wasn't an introverted man, he didn't spend his days sitting around ruminating on where he went wrong or what he could possibly do next. He just did. He got up every morning and went out and kept himself busy. That didn't mean there weren't days where he missed the drive of it all, that constant demand to keep up with. But life was a balancing act, and you could look back or move forward, and he had always been focussed on what was to come.

"Mr. Carson," Jack said, passing him in the street. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he was genuinely pleased to see the gentleman. "How has service been?"

"Ah good enough, men drink beer whatever the weather."

He smiled at that, "I'm not sure if that's good to hear or not."

"It's good for me, Mr. Carson. Can I tempt you to an early morning tipple?"

"Afraid not," some things had changed but his sensibilities hadn't. "I have a meeting at ten."

"Committee?"

"Yes, we cancelled earlier in the week, and I have some things I want to raise. In fact, you might be of some use…"

Jack frowned, his face already turning into a grumble.

"What I mean is," Charles quickly explained, "your knowledge of the village, the residents. I'd like to discuss something with you, if that's possible."

Jack nodded, "You know where to find me. What use I can be…"

* * *

" _Can I come in?" Elsie asked gently, tapping on the bathroom door._

" _Of course," he sat up in the bath, arranging himself so there wasn't too much on show. It was foolish really, she knew every inch of his body now and he hers._

" _Here," she carried over a small glass of brandy. "Drink it, it'll do you good, for the cold as well as the shock."_

" _Thank you," he took a sip, looking up at her. She wore the worry in a furrowed brow and wide eyes. "I'm alright," he said, "really."_

" _You will be," she pressed kiss to the top of his head. "You rest here, warm up." She touched a hand to his shoulder, "I brought up your book, it'll take your mind off things."_

" _You're a kind woman, Elsie."_

" _I'm not alone. I'll get started on dinner, call me, should you need me." She moved to fold his wet clothes, piling them neatly in her arms. "I'll take these to wash."_

" _Elsie…"_

" _Mm?"_

" _Did you ever think there would come a time in life where we would be comfortable like this, me in the bath and you there…?"_

" _No, Mr. Carson, I didn't. But I'm very glad we are."_

" _As am I." He took another sip of brandy, "I don't know what I would do without you."_

* * *

The committee, though supportive of Charles' plans in theory, were of little use when it came to ideas on fundraising. They saw it in small terms, small potatoes Elsie would have called it, he needed more, he was thinking on a bigger scale.

They were concerned with the Christmas party, both of them, as there would be one for the village children on Christmas Eve and one for the entire village a week prior to that. The topic up for debate was whether old Giles Norman could play Father Christmas for the ninth year in a row, or whether it was time for a change.

When eyes turned to Charles himself he made his excuses and left. He was quite sure the women could manage on their own and, more pertinent than that, he was a little frustrated with their small quibbles and gossip over the weather. Perhaps he'd been spoilt, no, there was little doubt about it, he had been. Elsie was intelligent and always willing to discuss bigger issues.

He took a stroll to the Grantham Arms, shaking his hat free of a few flakes of snow as he went indoors.

"What can I get you, Mr. Carson?" He asked, slapping the bar as his newest customer stood at it.

"Oh nothing to drink, I was just wondering if I might have a word, regarding what I mentioned this morning."

"It would be rude of me to do so without a beverage in your hand, we can offer you lunch. A cheese sandwich perhaps, that and an ale, nothing better."

Charles thought of the taste of wine on Elsie's lips the other night, there could be nothing better than that, kissing down her chest, her nipple in his mouth. Red wine, sweet breasts.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, sorry… Yes, that sounds quite wonderful."

He took a seat in the corner, a small round table, and as lunch went on the pub filled. When it was rowdy and Charles had finished eating, Jack took a seat with him.

"The topic for discussion?"

"The thing is, with winter here and set to last for quite a while, I would like to do more."

"In what sense my good man?"

"The poor," Charles said softly, almost embarrassed to say the word. "Those in poverty."

Jack frowned, "Quite the task. Why now, why all of a sudden now? I mean," he sat back in his chair, casual, "not to be rude but none of your lot have ever shown an interest before."

"I realise that," Charles said quickly, "and the last thing I want to do is interfere in anything. Just to do something."

"Is this a project? To fill your time?"

"I rather think I can do more on the village committee than oversee bake sales," Charles said abruptly.

"Nobody doubts you're an intelligent man, but you've got a certain skills sets."

"You think this is a mistake? To get involved?"

Jack paused, taking in the measure of the man, eyeing him carefully, as if looking could tell him all he needed to know, the very soul of the measured, polite man in front of him.

"If you can do some good, then so be it. Glad to help where I can."

"I'm very grateful for that. The use of your establishment for one, may be of great use."

"I'm all ears."

* * *

 _She chopped onions and they brought tears, that's what she told herself anyway, when they slid freely down her face. She dropped them into the pan, let them sizzle and spit for a moment, stirred them with a wooden spoon and wiped her hands on her apron._

 _On her knees by the fire she twisted paper, packed it well, recalling her early days in Scotland on her bony knees on cold floors on the darkest mornings building fires. Everyone started somewhere. Within six months someone else was building the fires and she had an extra ninety minutes in bed, a maid now and already making impressions._

 _She wanted the lounge to be warm when he came down._

 _Sitting back, she watched the flames flicker and build. On the mantelpiece were photographs of their wedding, one from their time in Scarborough. Holding hands, building bonds. It made her cry again and she could admit she was now; she needed a brandy too, and perhaps something more solid, his chest against hers, his strong arms around her, for him to be whole and the Carson she'd known for so many years._

 _He was right. Life without the two of them together seemed unimaginable._

* * *

Andy skidded down the hallway, the back door slamming behind him, a streak of moisture left behind on the floor: melting ice, sodden shoes.

"Mrs. Hughes," he called and Mrs. Patmore scolded from the kitchen at his impertinence, marching out to chastise him again. "Mrs. Hughes," his voice rose a little and he slapped his hand against her door, more to stop himself from falling than to get inside.

"Whatever is the meaning of this?" She demanded, opening the door. "Andy, control yourself."

"There's been an accident in the village, Mrs. Hughes." He panted, his chest painful as he ached to get the words out. "Mr. Carson, the river."

Her mind flew in all directions – what on earth would he have been near the river for?

"Well," she said calmly, "no need to make such a scene over it all. Where is Mr. Carson now?"

She dreaded his answer, her heart already preparing for the worst, to hear he was dead.

"In the village, he's still in the village."

She glanced to Beryl, "You can manage, Mrs. Patmore?"

"I reckon we can yes."

"Right then," her shaking hand as she reached for her coat from the back of the door was her only giveaway. "Perhaps you'll escort me, Andy."

* * *

Charles left the village with a new sense of responsibility. There was perhaps little he could do in the world, little to make a mark, but perhaps that wasn't what it was all about. Maybe sometimes you just had to do what you could in your little corner. He had earned his right to have a place amongst the best butlers in England, his name was spoken in his circle with respect and, occasionally, reverence. But beyond that, now those days were over, he realised it meant very little in his heart's musings. Love, that was what mattered. Not just for Elsie, but friends too, the family, his home. All of that mattered.

A young boy sprinted in front of him, seemingly appearing from the hedgerow, sodden and with a bleeding forehead.

"Now then," Charles said, catching hold of him. "Almost had me off my feet here, what's the rush?"

"Tommy's drowning," the boy gasped, "the ice broke, on the river. He fell." The boy was clearly in shock, frantic and too upset to even cry. "I think he's dead, he's dead and mam 'ull kill me."

Charles squeezed his shoulders hard, the bag with his bread dropped to the snow, "Where? Show me where right now!"

He had followed in a hurry, no thoughts of his age or health, shoes and trousers wet before he even reached the bank down to the river. He slipped behind the boy, no more than nine and thin as a rake.

There were others at the water's edge, a couple still out on the ice, grasping at twigs.

"Get his father," Charles shouted at them. "Go now, two of you, fetch his father, get more help!"

They fled and he threw his coat off, sliding on the ice in his leather soles before it even hit the floor. It was bitter out there and, though he hoped for the best, he feared the worst had already happened.

"He's only four," one of the older lads who had remained on the ice said, "we kept losing him. We tried, mister, we tried."

He ignored him, reaching down into the water, searching, his eyes growing used to its clear depths – it can't have been that deep, not really, they weren't too far out.

Without real thought he dropped into the water, every inch of his skin stinging and his heart instantly constricting as the blood in his veins struggled to function.

He floundered for no more than ten seconds, searched for the floor, found the mud with his feet and slipped as he stood. Arms searching, fingers freezing, he waded in the small area where the ice had broken away.

The entire event could have taken no more than sixty seconds but when his fingers closed around a frail wrist it felt like forever. He yanked and pulled the boy up, almost throwing him onto the ice and then launching himself out of the water, his legs still strong and sturdy. He bent, clasping the bedraggled being to his chest, sliding back to the edge, wrapping his jacket around him.

He was tiny, like a kitten in a bucket. He'd seen it too often.

He was rubbing the boy's chest when the others ran down towards them, uncertain of what he was meant to do and then falling back onto the snow as they took over. Jack was there, he remembered that, and someone was fussing with his wet clothes and then he didn't remember much at all.

His body gave up and he laid prone, eyes closed, brain still ticking away as he listened to them.

"Get him warm. Fetch his wife."

Fetch his wife. Bring my wife. I want my wife, my Elsie.

* * *

" _Thank you," he said, finding her in the kitchen. "I feel much better now."_

" _Good," she said, buttering bread for dinner. "I'll make a pot of tea, lace yours good and strong. Go sit by the fire."_

" _I'm fine."_

" _Yes, you are, but you're a foolish old man and you'll go sit by the fire."_

 _He did as she asked and closed his eyes, exhaustion sweeping over him. It was soothing, being there, in their home, with the sounds of her cooking, the smells of it. Their furniture, their things, the plants she'd bought, the décor they'd chosen._

 _She put a teacup and saucer on the table by his arm, bending to poke at the fire and feeling his eyes on her body as she did. She bent to his feet, took his slippers off and rubbed his toes._

" _You need socks on," she instructed, "I'll go and fetch some."_

" _Not just yet," he held his hand out and she took it, kneeling in front of him._

" _It's liver and onions for dinner, one of your favourites."_

" _Thank you."_

 _Her eyes were tender, "You silly man," she said, then quickly rose, leaning in to kiss him, hold him. Falling into his lap. "You silly, silly man." She kissed the side of his head repeatedly. "I thought you were gone."_

" _Not yet." He sat her back, finding a more comfortable position so he could look at her properly. "I just need to sleep it off, it was a shock, adrenaline, you know."_

" _You can't go diving into frozen rivers."_

" _Clearly not."_

" _The villagers will have an entirely different view of you; you saved that boy's life."_

" _Not out of the woods yet…" he reflected. "They had a view of me?"_

" _Of course," she brushed back his damp hair with her fingertips, "Mr. Carson. Ice in his veins."_

 _He rolled his eyes, "That's quite the impression. You think this will change it?"_

" _I think perhaps marrying changed it somewhat, but yes, this will certainly have changed it."_

 _He stroked his thumb down her cheek, "I love you."_

" _I know." She loosened her hold a little, it was disconcerting to have him so emotional, so vulnerable, usually he said that when he was naked and cuddled up against her. "I must take the pan off the heat else it will be burnt."_

 _He squeezed his hands against her back, "I really love you."_

" _Yes," she smiled kindly, "I know. And I love you too. So don't go jumping in any more frozen rivers, or there'll be trouble."_

 _He nodded his head, letting her loose and watching as she finished preparing their meal._

 _She held him tight that night, close, until she woke for work and he was asleep with his head on her chest._

 _Soon the thaw would arrive, as it did for all things._


	10. Chapter 10

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **J – Jingle Bells**

 **December 10** **th,** **1926**

There were many, many things about marriage Elsie hadn't considered before the wedding. Tiny things which seemed inconsequential, like how long one spent in the bathroom brushing their teeth or how socks should be folded. Not that she wore socks, but obviously Charles did and it had never occurred to her that he might like his socks folded in a particular way. She noted he never enquired as to how her stockings should be stored.

It was the snoring though, above all things, that had come as a surprise. For the first month her sleep was constantly interrupted by it. She was exhausted, and not for the reason newly married couples usually gave. After a while she found if he slept with three pillows propping him up it wasn't quite so bad, and besides she'd grown used to it, along with the way he'd hold her in the night, or she'd wake to find the hardness between his thighs pressing against her back.

Yes, there were a great many things she had never considered before marriage.

Despite the fact she could've woken leisurely – for it was Friday, her morning off – the body clock didn't obey and she was awake before the sun rose. And his snoring was soothing, welcomed. She lay for a while on her back listening to it in the dark room. Beneath the sheets it was warm and comforting, yet she could feel the air beyond was biting and tight. She twisted onto her side, she slept on the left of the bed, closer to the window, Charles on the right, closer to the door. It was a sparse room but theirs and she liked it that way.

She watched him sleep. A bruise had formed over his right eye where he'd cut his forehead and she had to resist the urge to touch it.

"My darling," she whispered into the darkness, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder, then down his arm, beneath the sheets into their secret world. Her fingertips beneath his sleeve, tender on his wrist. Her hands were cold where they'd been out of the bed and the contrast with his warm skin was intense. He was warm and alive, it was all that mattered.

The church bells roused her again and she pulled back from him, slipping out of their bed. He only stirred, turned onto his side and slept again. She crept from the bedroom and went to light the fire downstairs and put the kettle on; the Doctor would be there early and she wanted to be dressed and sorted before he arrived.

* * *

"Mrs. Carson, good morning." Dr. Clarkson said as he came up their path.

"Oh good morning," she was beating the kitchen mat out in the garden and he was early. "I didn't expect you, Dr. Clarkson, I thought it might be a junior."

"I wanted to do this one myself, how is he?"

"Still asleep last time I went up, so not had breakfast yet, not even a cup of tea. Can I tempt you to one whilst I go to wake him?"

"That would be most welcome."

He sat at their little table sipping his tea and she felt odd about it, like someone had trespassed, like their privacy was being violated. It needed to be done though and she was ever practical about things.

"Charles," she whispered, opening the curtains a fraction to try and wake him. She pressed a hand to his chest on top of the sheets. "Charlie?" She said again and he mumbled.

"I'm awake."

"Dr. Clarkson is here," she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, "shall I send him up?"

"Absolutely not."

She smiled at his tone, "You're going to come down then? Are you quite up to it?"

"Just tired is all, I can manage to walk downstairs." He pushed the bedsheets down to his belly and she pressed her hand down to one of his where it lay against the mattress. He blinked, clearing his gaze and looking at her, like an angel in the early morning light, white from the snow, she shone.

"I'll pour tea, put your dressing gown on, and your slippers."

He rolled his eyes at her instructions but there was a kindness to it, a concern, which he couldn't ignore.

* * *

"He won't be long," she said, relaying the carpets in the kitchen.

Clarkson got to his feet, wandering to the fire and warming his hands. "He slept well?"

"Yes, from what I noticed." She realised that admitting certain things meant pointing out that they did indeed share not only a bedroom but a bed. She was well aware of what people thought, it as a marriage of friendship, of convenience, that they'd be in separate singles not cuddling up together, feet touching on cold nights. "I thought he might catch a chill."

"It might come out."

"I kept his feet warm, as instructed, drew it down from his head."

"Good, and you're alright, Mrs. Carson?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Shock, an odd thing."

 _He was there when she had arrived at the river, her husband wrapped in blankets in the snow. She had slipped in her boots as she came towards them, hand gripping Andy's arm so tightly her knuckles had turned beyond white to blue. She had that ashen look upon her face he'd seen a hundred times before during the war – wives losing their husbands. He had never thought to have seen it upon Mrs. Hughes' face._

 _He got to his feet quickly, "He's alive," he'd repeated until she heard and breathed and he thought he'd never seen her eyes look that clear._

 _Regardless of who was around or what had happened she had fallen to her knees beside him, hands reaching to clasp his, and she had said something, whispered words which he hadn't made out. He was glad of that, it was a private matter._

 _He hadn't realised before you see. That it was real love. He thought it companionship, affection formed over a lifetime working closely together. But it was plain for all to see, right there, she was in love._

"Bit of a hero, as it turns out." Clarkson said. "The village is chattering over it."

"Already? Goodness."

"Wouldn't be surprised if the local paper won't want to talk to him."

"He'd hate that."

"I do," Charles said, coming into the lounge, "If they turn up send them on their way." He sank into a chair and Elsie resisted the urge to help him; he wouldn't want to appear weak in front of Clarkson. Instead she poured his tea, good and strong with two sugars, and carried it over.

"Just want to check a few things," Clarkson said, tapping his thermometer. "No sickness? No shivers?"

"A little sickness yesterday evening, shivering in the early hours."

Elsie chewed her lip, hovering behind the Doctor as he took Charles' temperature.

"Running a slight fever, best to stay wrapped up, in bed even better. Sleep it out of your system. I can prescribe something too."

"How's the…" Charles coughed, reaching for his tea, his throat seemed tight and his voice lower than usual. "How's the lad?" He asked.

"Not out of the woods just yet, but alive, and fighting."

"No kind of Christmas is it, for him."

"He might be home, we'll see how it goes. Need to check he hasn't got an infection for one, that water's not hygienic at the best of times and his immune system will be weaker than yours." He started to write the prescription. "Very brave of you, Mr. Carson, to do that."

"Didn't really think the thing through," he admitted, glancing at Elsie. "Seemed the obvious."

"Well, his mother has you to thank for her boy being alive. She's got five of them to feed and a little lassie too." He handed the prescription to Elsie. "Pneumonia for the lad, worst case scenario, which is why I'm none too happy you didn't stay."

"I would be as well in my home as I am there," Charles said with finality.

"Yes well, your heartbeat is faster than it need be so no strenuous activity."

"I thought I might visit the lad, see how he is."

"Not yet you won't," Clarkson said.

"Absolutely not," Elsie said at the same time. "You will either be lying in bed or in that chair by the fire, and I'll be taking care of you."

"You have work this afternoon."

"Things won't fall apart without me, I don't think that highly of myself." She plumped another pillow behind his back, "Now, come on, drink your tea. I'll nip into the village later for your medication. Shall I see you out, Doctor?"

Elsie made a good breakfast – bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes – she worried Charles wouldn't eat but his appetite was actually hearty which pleased her.

"I have my meetings," he said, onto a third cup of tea.

"Well, they can cope without you. I won't have you doing anything until you're well again."

"You're incredibly bossy."

She took his empty plate away, "And this you have only just learned?"

He glared at her and turned his face to the fire, "My back aches, or my bones do."

"Painkillers should help. But you must stop fussing over things, I can take care of anything that needs taking care of."

"Lucky I have you," he said softly.

"Yes, you are," she drew her chair next to his, her hand on his arm. "I didn't think to have lost you so soon… I won't."

He knew what she meant, their reality was married life might be short, though perhaps not this short. If he could have another ten years with her; but then that would pass and he'd long for ten more.

He watched her fingertips stroke back and forth upon his arm, causing the hairs to rise and react to the sensuality of her touch. Her skin was as akin to silk as he had ever found, and her fingertips weren't even the softest spot, there were more far more secretive, hidden places. Places where she'd shiver when he touched her.

"I wondered if you might do something for me."

"You aren't going to take advantage of this situation, are you? Have me running about."

"Don't be ridiculous," he started, then realised her teasing and gave a slight nod. "You must return to work tomorrow, I won't have you risking anything." He was coughing again and she went to fetch water.

"I think his Lordship knows us well enough by now. And as I have said, you have to clear your mind of worries and concentrate on recovering. Now, what would you like me to do?"

* * *

Elsie had hated hospitals since childhood. First, her mother's traumatic labour with Becky, and then visiting her sister many times over those first few years. There was that distinctive clinical smell of bleach and coldness, like death wandered the halls. When she was seven she thought she saw him, his staff raised as he turned a corner, and she'd been terrified ever since.

Fears changed with adulthood though, the fantasies that caused nightmares as a child replaced with much more tangible worries. Losing her husband was foremost in her mind presently, and this niggling awful feeling that she couldn't actually do very much at all other than nag him to get better.

And this of course, his request.

When he'd asked she'd been surprised, but he seemed to have his mind set on it and had evidently been pondering it whilst awake in the early hours.

She'd dug the item out from his private storage in the spare bedroom at the cottage. Had dusted it off and wrapped it in tissue paper tied with a string. She'd questioned his certainty, but once he had settled his heart on something there could be no alternative, as she knew all too well.

Mother and Grandmother were by the sleeping boy's bed, and it made Elsie's chest hurt to see him there, though he was pinker since she saw him last, like a fish dragged from the water. She thought of Charles' hands, the sheer span of them, the strength in his arms, and how he had held firm and pulled the boy from the grasp of death.

"I am so very sorry to interrupt," she said gently, she knew neither woman which surprised her. Perhaps they lived on the outskirts. "My name is Mrs. Carson, it was my husband who –."

"Your husband?" The mother said and her accent was Irish. She grasped Elsie's arm, her fingers closing around her wrist. "Oh, thank you, you must thank him, again and again."

"I will, I will," Elsie said, "he is so very glad your boy is alive. Has there been any improvement?"

"His temperature has dropped a little, just though, we keep hoping. All we can do is pray and hope. But thank him. That man…"

"How is he?" The grandmother asked, calmer, still sitting.

Elsie shook her hand, "Recovering, I think, his body will just take a while… he isn't a young man." She smiled, "He actually sent me with something. A gift for your son."

"Oh?"

She took the package from her bag and handed it across, "It was his, when he was a boy. And he has his heart set on passing it to your son, a Christmas gift if you will."

The mother unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful wooden sleigh, hand painted, the back filled with the toys, Father Christmas sitting proudly holding the reins.

"We can't possibly, this is precious. He can't give this away."

"He is quite certain," Elsie insisted. "We have no children of our own and I think he just wanted to…" she looked at the sleeping boy. "Well, do something nice." She took the sleigh from the woman's hands and sat it down on the table beside the boy's head. "It's got some wonderful fine detail, look," she touched a finger to the reins, "the bells even jingle."

"A beautiful gift," the grandmother acknowledged. "Your husband is clearly a good man."

"He is," she said wistfully, "the most wonderful man I have ever met."


	11. Chapter 11

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **K – Kris Kringle**

 **December 11** **th,** **1926**

"Who would have thought it, Charles Carson and Kris Kringle, both pleasing children at Christmas? Not too far removed really."

Elsie glared over her glasses at Beryl, "Well, they're both alliterated I guess." She put down the order book and pushed her glasses down her nose, chuckling at their joke.

"If he starts growing a white beard and wearing a lot of red, you know something's wrong."

Elsie smiled more sedately, "I feel rather bad leaving him alone today."

"He's healing well, though, isn't he?"

"Seems to be, some coughing yesterday and sneezing, but his temperature 'ud settled this morning."

"That's good," Beryl pushed up her sleeves and sank her hands into the large bowl in front of her. "Not keeping you awake at night, is he?"

Elsie's eyes widened and Beryl laughed at her expression, "I didn't mean –"

"I know what you meant." She said quickly, reaching for the tea pot and pouring.

"Although, we could discuss the new-found lightness in Mr. Carson's steps…"

"No. We couldn't. How is Mr. Mason by the way?"

Beryl raised her eyebrows, an enigmatic smile on her face, "He is very well. We are taking a walk this coming Sunday."

"That's very nice to hear," despite their mutual teasing, Elsie would wish for nothing more than for her old friend to find the contentment she herself had.

"Fancy it though, our own Mr. Carson out saving lives."

"I met them last night, the family." She dropped sugar into the tea, "Irish."

"Oh?"

She licked her lips, swallowing her tea, "Travellers."

"Ohhh. Did you tell him?"

"No. You think I should?"

Beryl shrugged, "Would it serve any purpose?"

"Not unless he meets them, which I think he might, or he should. You know the paper wants to do a cover piece on it."

"Not surprised, most exciting thing to occur here for many a year."

* * *

Sitting still did not come easy for Charles Carson, therefore, he was unaccustomed to the term 'boredom', for if he ever found himself at a loose end he would always find something to do.

Forced relaxation then, or recuperation as Elsie termed it, were as foreign to him as coffee with breakfast.

He had managed to get himself in and out of the bath tub, though as the days passed his body started to ache, inner pains surfacing as stretched muscles recovered. Lounging in the tub had lasted twenty minutes, thirty at a push, and even when ill there was little need for pyjamas in the day, he thought.

Therefore, dressed accordingly, he made his way downstairs and started to make mental plans for the day. The paper had been delivered, so there was that to read. Elsie had left boiled eggs for lunch so he could have a sandwich. Perhaps a nap then, maybe cards or the crossword in the afternoon.

To his mind, these sounded like pitiful tasks to fill a pitiful day.

Nevertheless, he made his tea, read his paper and then sliced the bread for lunch.

As predicted, he dosed off on the sofa after eating. He dreamt of icy water, swimming through it, his strong arms heavy and laboured as he tried to move. Elsie's face in the mist in front of him, a strangled cry and his chest aching aching as he tried to move.

He woke himself turning on the sofa, realised he'd been lying on his arm and blocked the blood. He let it hang over the side of the couch, pins and needles as it loosened up. He was too tired to care, and he seemed so warm yet shivering again. He pulled the blanket down from the back of the sofa and covered his legs.

It smelled of Elsie. Of them. He had made love to her on this blanket.

Oh the sweetness of his wife, that wondrous pleasure he had so longed for over a lifetime found.

This time, the ice was gone, and instead he dreamt of the sea. Warm waves that left ringlets of salt around his ankles. Her hair blowing in his face, her quick hand pushing it back into place beneath her hat. A walk on a damp beach with grey skies as winter edged into spring with little warning; like the coming of happiness into his life.

He dreamt of kissing her there on that beach, though his brain knew it to be false, he indulged himself in a false memory. Passionate kisses, unleashing something inside him he'd buried as a teenager. His hands on her back pressing her slight body against his, his tongue… tasting… loving…

And then the boy again, in Elsie's lap, feeding and nourishing. She was ethereal as she stood, handing him the child. A boy. A son. Her long hair winding down to her ankles, bare feet, and then the tendrils of weeds in the water and a boy floating away. The baby he couldn't reach to save.

A frantic breath as he woke. Disorientated and for a second simply not breathing. Then there was another knock at the door, a third, though Charles hadn't recognised this. And he gasped for breath, reached to the arm of the sofa to push himself up and he sat coughing and panting for a moment.

His back felt slick with sweat as he stood, wobbling his way to the door and his visitor.

"Thought the local hero might fancy a game or two of dominoes," Jack said, holding up a battered box. "That is, if you know how to play."

"Well, you're a sight for sore eyes." He said, opening the door further and stepping back from the sudden wash of cold air. "Come on in," he covered his mouth as he coughed again.

"Sorry to intrude," Jack said, making his way down the short hallway behind Charles and into the heart of the cottage. "I wasn't entirely sure where we stood but I thought, well, why not. Not a bad walk over here."

"Absolutely you should, I've been a little, how should I put it? Bored." He moved into the kitchen, lighting the stove and putting the kettle on to boil. He pushed the dream from his brain. "Take a seat."

"Want to tell me what happened then?" Jack said, "Are the rumours true? You're trying out for one of these 'ere moving pictures?"

Charles chuckled, and he felt his chest lighten. "I'll have you know I'm a very good domino player, used to do it all the time with my Grandad."

"Good, let's set them up then." He tipped the tiles onto the table. "You have reason to thank me."

"I do," Charles carried the teapot to the table and some of Mrs. Patmore's mince pies – freshly baked the day before and sent to him as a get-well gift. "What would that be?"

"It was either me visiting you, or Mrs. Wigan leading the ladies of your there committee."

Charles rolled his eyes, "Lucky indeed," he agreed, taking a seat across from Jack. He couldn't recall the last time he felt like he had a friend, besides Elsie, perhaps not since Charlie. He wasn't entirely certain they were friends yet, and he still had that rigid crisp outer shell that made him feel like he was standing outside looking in on events. He was determined to at least try and change that though.

"What did they want?"

"I believe it has been decided that this year our village Father Christmas will be played by no other than a former butler of the estate."

Charles dropped his dominoes, "What?"

Jack held his hands up, "I am not even the messenger so don't shoot me. I am merely sharing the information, do with it what you will."

"I cannot possibly be Kris Kringle, I am in no way…" He huffed, shaking his head. "It isn't me. For a start, I have no beard and I am poor when it comes to comforting children."

"Not what your recent actions show," he laid down double six to start proceedings. "Are we betting?"

"Should we?" Charles had never been one for gambling but when Jack slid a penny out of his jacket pocket and onto the table he felt he didn't have a choice. He sneezed, reaching for his handkerchief and shivering again.

"You're not at all well," Jack said. He took the blanket from the sofa and let Charles wrap it around his shoulders. "Tell 'em that, you can't do it, you're ill."

"Been thinking about my fundraising," he said, "nothing else to do really. How would you be fitted for a gathering in your pub?"

"For?"

"Family event, food, drink, games, music, Father Christmas for the children."

"And we'd make a profit?"

"We'd sell tickets. See. Publicise it, play it up as a big deal."

Jack nodded, "People 'ud pay to see the local hero."

Charles blustered on, "I can ask his Lordship about the hampers, if we raise enough money, if they can make them up at the house and have them delivered."

"This could be the start of something. But it still leaves us in a tricky situation."

"Which is?"

"You need somebody to play Santa Claus."

"I do indeed Jack, I do indeed."

* * *

There was a pile of coins on the table when Elsie got home, dominoes laid out, two whisky glasses and a sleeping Charles Carson on the sofa. She pressed her cold hand against his forehead but he had been lying by the fire for so long it was impossible to know his temperature.

She laid her things on the side, put the sausages she'd brought for dinner in the oven, and went upstairs to change.

He was lying on his back staring at the ceiling when she came back down.

"Well, hello, a good day?"

"Jack came to visit."

"He did, did he?" She bent to kiss him and he held up his hand.

"Best not, might catch my chill."

"I don't care," she kissed him anyway, smiling sweetly. "I have missed you, how have you been? Are you hungry?"

"Very."

He sat up slowly, dazed again from the daily sleeping, watching as she tied an apron around her waist and set to peeling potatoes.

"It's sausages, and potatoes and onions, would you like gravy?"

"If we can."

"I think there's some left over from Sunday, if it's still healthy. So, you've made a friend?"

"Perhaps," he replied, "though I'm far too old for such… pastimes, silly really."

"It isn't, not at all. Gambling at my dining table though, tut tut."

She could tease him so easily, it had always been thus.

"Did you win?"

"I think we broke even. Those sausages smell good."

"Did you take your medication at lunch?"

"Yes, yes." He got up, coming to the kitchen so he could be closer to her as she worked. "They're making me drowsy, I just keep sleeping."

"That's no bad thing."

"Jack said they want me to play Father Christmas."

She laughed, "Really? And?"

"Don't even ask, you know the answer."

She did. He would see it as demeaning, belittling, and not because he was a mean man, just because it was the opposite to who he was.

"It did give me an idea though, for raising money."

"You're meant to be resting."

"I'm doing nothing but, however, one's brain doesn't just switch off."

"Clearly not," she wiped her hands on her apron. "Is there bread left?"

"Yes. A family party, in the Grantham's Arms, we can have events like they do at the fair. Food and drink."

She grinned at his giddiness, "And sell tickets?"

"Yes."

"The irony of that after your going on about the house opening up."

"This is quite different, this is an establishment meant for celebration."

She couldn't argue that. "And what? You're going to don the red suit and bring joy to all?"

"Don't be ridiculous, as if I could. I did have an idea though, somebody to draw the crowds."

She stopped what she was doing, listening carefully.

"His Lordship."

"You think he'd do it? Very brave of you to ask, Charlie," she smiled, proud of him. In the past he would have thought it demeaning to him too. But the world changed, people did.

"I need to find the right words."

"I think presently they could grant you anything, Lady Mary will want to see you when she returns."

His eyes sparkled at that, "I shall look forward to it."

"I'm sure. Sit yourself down then, won't be much longer. Did Dr. Clarkson come to see you?"

"Yes, mid-morning, prescribed more of the same. Rest. Keep warm."

She stood behind him, a hand on either shoulder, "Well, you just make sure you do." She kissed the top of his head. "Following another's orders has never been easy for you."

"Oh, I don't know. I seem to do alright with you."


	12. Chapter 12

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **L - Laughter**

 **December 12** **th,** **1926**

He woke her in the night with the light from the bathroom down the hall; she'd always had to be alert as housekeeper, aware of the slightest creak of the floorboards in the night, ready to pounce upon whomever was doing something they shouldn't.

Bleary eyed she'd turned onto her back, sighing in her sleepy haze and then keenly aware of the sound of him bringing up the contents of his stomach.

She sat, listened for a while, concerned yet embarrassed to hear it. Deciding she needed to stop fretting and get on with things she found her dressing gown and went downstairs to the ice of the kitchen. She boiled the kettle, mixed a teaspoon of baking soda with warm water and placed it on a tray alongside two cups of Chamomile tea; he'd never been much of a fan of it but it might help calm his stomach.

When she returned to the bedroom the bathroom light was still on and she could hear him brushing his teeth. She was sitting with the lamp light on when he came in, pale and almost bent double.

"Goodness," she exclaimed upon seeing him. "You look quite ill," she hastened out of bed and helped him to it, pushing up pillows behind him. "Drink this?"

"What is it?"

"Baking soda."

He pulled a face and pushed the cup back to her.

"Now come on, it'll help your stomach. Then drink the tea."

"I can't swallow anything. What a sight. What an embarrassment."

"It's nothing I haven't seen before. Now, hush up and drink." He took the cup. "Best do it in one go."

He grimaced but did as she advised.

She rested a hand on his forehead, "Your temperature is up again, perhaps I should send for the Doctor."

"It's the middle of the night."

She glanced to the clock, after three, she could perhaps wait a couple of hours and then go herself to Dr. Clarkson's.

Charles coughed and spluttered into his handkerchief, and she rubbed his back as he sat forward struggling to regain his breath.

When it had finally subsided, she helped him lay down, still propped up on three pillows and his chest grumbling.

"We need to put something on it." She went to the bathroom cabinet, finding the ointment she required, and going back to him. Sure fingers unbuttoning his pyjama top before spreading the menthol over his skin, rubbing it in deeply to have the most affect.

"You'll get it," he said, as if warning her to sleep elsewhere.

"No, I won't." She wiped her hands on a tissue and re-buttoned his top.

It seemed odd to him, watching her do it, feeling her touch him. Her hands had only ever been on his bare chest when they were alone in bed together, finding secrets in the dark. Her hands lingered then. He closed his eyes, feeling the heaviness of them, that dizzy feeling he seemed to have carried all night. He no longer felt so nauseous but his stomach wasn't settled and his head felt the weight of a boulder on his shoulders.

He was vaguely aware of Elsie getting into bed next to him, of the lamp going off and then no more.

* * *

 _She was laughing. He could hear it as clearly as a bell, the sweetest sound he'd ever come across. It made him smile, and he did so very rarely. He followed the sound down the hallway, seeking her out, there was more laughter, giggling, and he realised she wasn't alone._

 _He marched into the hall, the smile disappearing as he noted other maids with her._

" _What is the meaning of this?" He said, annoyed with himself for the sharpness of his tone; he hadn't meant to snap._

 _The girls scurried away with a flurry of 'Sorry, Mr. Carson' ringing in his ear._

 _She had stayed where she was. A half smile still upon her face, he could see the tendrils of dark hair, the odd shine of red when she caught the light a certain way. And those eyes. He had found himself wondering about her eyes when he was alone; it was a dangerous thing to ponder about a woman when alone._

" _Miss. Hughes?"_

" _Mr. Carson."_

" _What was so very amusing?"_

" _Just a joke, Mr. Carson, one of the hall boys told me."_

 _He stiffened at that, not least because he didn't approve of hall boys chatting to the maids, never mind telling them inappropriate jokes. But it was more than that, he didn't like the thought of her being alone with another man._

" _Well," he said, "I'm sure you have plenty to attend to, Miss. Hughes."_

" _I'm sure I do."_

 _She disappeared out of the room and he thought he heard her giggle again as she walked away. He had thought on the sound of her laugh for weeks afterwards, perhaps more on his reaction, the feeling it evoked in him was far removed from his sensibilities and it made him feel altogether queer. Like there was a hole in his stomach._

* * *

When Elsie woke again it was because Charles was dreaming, muttering something and then an odd, strange laugh. It had startled her and she'd sat up in bed and placed her hand on his chest until he'd settled. She could feel his heart beat and she closed her eyes counting each one.

The longer her eyes were closed the more pronounced the beat seemed to become. Like a thudding in her head. She had never dwelt on it before – thought on it, yes, but never dwelt – but the sudden realisation that even Charles Carson was mortal had shaken her. One day he would die, maybe before she did, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

It was the natural cycle of life, of course, to live and die and she was no fool, she knew it came and went like the rhythm of the tide. And she knew, just as certainly, that he loved her with all his heart. He had made it abundantly clear many times over and as clumsy, and short sighted and feeble as he could be at times, there was something much more beneath the surface and one day at a time she was drawing it out.

Perhaps it would be better if she didn't go first, though younger she had no grand desires to be left alone, a widow, but she knew somehow she would manage it better than he would. He had always seemed to her so reserved, almost aloof. In the early days, she thought his only interest the work, that there was nothing more to him. He never laughed, he barely smiled and he was so very harsh with those below him.

It wasn't until she had taken over as housekeeper and inadvertently caught him laughing one day. He was reading a book in the middle of summer, it was a Sunday afternoon, and he'd been out in the grounds reading on a bench. She was taking a stroll and she stopped when she heard his deep thrum of laughter; it had made her smile. She had watched him for a few minutes, from afar, and then walked away and never told a soul.

Beryl had teased for many a year that she had him wrapped around her finger. She had always rebutted the comment with serious disapproval, the truth was she knew she did, and she enjoyed it because it meant he cared. It meant there was something there beyond the normal working relationship.

She rose, washed and dressed and built the fire in their bedroom. Charles would stay here for the day, like it or not, and she would fetch the Doctor and pray the fever would soon pass.

* * *

" _I don't want to go on stage tonight," he said, his head rolling at the noise of the theatre. His heart ached, or his chest did, and the object of his affections was standing on the stage singing, blowing him a kiss._

 _Alice. Sweet Alice. She had introduced him to love, and with her he had gotten as close to intimacy as he was ever likely to. Before Elsie. He could hear her giggling as they had kissed behind the curtain, and his hands had bravely ventured to her dress, the feel of her hard-boned corset beneath, the frill of undergarments, so very different from a man's._

 _He frowned, thrashing an arm in the air as he watched Charlie lead off stage. And then he was older, and Charlie was marching off down the train station holding Elsie's hand._

He woke with a thump, for a second disorientated and feeling he had fallen onto the track. His body shook as if dealing with the physicality of the fall.

"Darling," Elsie said. "The Doctor has left some medicine, I'd like you to take some now you're awake."

He was groggy and she had to lift his head up, support his neck as he drank, and she wondered if this was where life would go if the tremors in his hands led to more.

"Thank… you…" he said, eyes closed, head lolling about as she laid him back down.

"You're welcome."

She screwed the lid on the bottle, listening to his shallow breathing again as he settled back to sleep. She had a chair by the fire, the scarf she had been working on for Becky to keep her busy. There was an undercurrent of guilt as she thought of the work she had missed of late, but come hell or high water she would not have left him today.

When he'd been rambling in his sleep, delirious, she had almost cried. That was not like her. But she recalled her grandfather on his death bed having lost his mind and she prayed the same wouldn't happen to Charles; he was such an intelligent, proud man and she loved him for that.

"Where's the baby?"

His words surprised her, and she looked up sharply to the bed, finding him staring at her with wild, unfocussed eyes.

"Which baby?" She asked gently, convinced he was actually asleep.

"The boy, the baby. You were feeding him at the fire." He flopped back to the bed, "I let him go," he cried, "in the river."

She put her knitting aside and went to him, holding his hand.

"There is no baby and you saved the boy in the river. You're dreaming, it's your fever."

"It's truth."

"Sleep," she softly insisted. "Just sleep and recover."

"It was our baby." He mumbled, "I wanted it."

She pondered on that as he slept. There had been times, when they were young, when she'd wondered every now and then if he felt more than he said. A few times she reckoned she caught him looking at her in an odd way, watching as if daydreaming.

Not that any of it mattered now. But she did wonder of his regrets at times. If he'd asked thirty years ago they might have been parents.

* * *

 _He longed to kiss her. The thought raged in his mind like the insistent pounding of his own heart. He wasn't brave enough and she had made no signs of wanting it._

 _But standing there in his parlour with her having accepted his proposal. He wanted to kiss her. As overwhelmed as he was._

 _He would ravish her, drown her in affection. Undress her slowly, revealing to himself this long dreamt of prize._

"Elsie…" he whispered and she looked up again, the day darkening and her eyes tired from sitting by the fire.

He was still asleep and she wondered of what he dreamt that made him say her name.

Yawning she got to her feet and stretched. The expression on his face made her smile and she was glad that whatever he was dreaming it was certainly bringing him joy.

* * *

The fever broke late in the afternoon and by early evening she had convinced him to have some soup.

"Feel like a child," he complained as she held the bowl and fed him. "Where's the respect gone? The dignity?"

"It is only your wife, Charles, being ill does not diminish you in my eyes."

He gave a soft smile at that, "Dear Elsie," he said before she put another spoon of soup into his mouth. "I need to apologise."

"For?"

"I fear I've rambled. I might be now."

"It's fine, you've been quite unwell."

"I've let you down."

"By being ill?"

"If I die first, I need to apologise for that. I suppose this wasn't what you signed up for when we wed."

She rolled her eyes at his melancholy. "In sickness and in health. I made my vows. And I would hope you would do the same for me if I ever caught such a bad chill."

"Most certainly," the thought of her being ill and confined to bed made him feel worse than his own illness. He would never harm a hair on her head. "Nevertheless, I shall apologise."

"Charles," she put the soup bowl aside once he'd finished. "You're being silly." She kissed his forehead, "I love you, no matter what. That's what being a wife is." She looked down at him, tidying the front of his hair with her fingertips, "And I am immensely proud to have you as my husband. So, don't go thinking of leaving me just yet."

"No…" he was at a loss for words. Still so tired, drawn and heavy. He felt her kiss him again, lingering this time as she pressed her sweet lips to his forehead.

He drifted back into sleep, dreaming he heard her praying for his health by the fire.


	13. Chapter 13

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **M - Music**

 **December 13** **th,** **1926**

"I'm not an invalid," Charles grumbled as Elsie tucked him in on the sofa.

"Well, actually, you are." Elsie insisted, wrapping the blankets around his feet. "And I would prefer for you to be in bed."

"I can't just keep lying in there."

"You're an old grump at times."

He placed his hand on her back as she bent over him, "Thank you for taking care of me," he said softly, "I do appreciate it."

"You don't have to thank me," she smiled at him. "This is what you do, when you're married." Her hand slid down to his.

"Yes, but this isn't what you signed up for. Taking care of me."

"It won't be forever," she leant in to kiss his forehead. "I must go, it's Monday and I need to try and catch up and get on top of things."

"Go, go, I'll be fine."

"Someone will check in on you later."

"Oh tosh, don't be sending people here."

She was fastening up her coat, "You have no choice in the matter. Now, I've made your lunch, it's on a plate in the fridge. And the kettle is full and the fire stocked." She stood by the sofa again. "You are sure you're well enough for me to go?"

"If you ask again I may not be. Go. I only wish I was up to doing some work, the fundraiser will never get organised at this rate."

* * *

It had rained all night, and continued to do so as Elsie walked to work hiding beneath an umbrella. The one benefit was the paths were clear of ice and snow and she could walk relatively easily and, more importantly, quickly. She wouldn't admit it to Charles but his illness had not only put her back at work, but with her Christmas preparations too. She would have to find an hour or two at some point in the week to go into the village; she was usually quite adept at purchasing gifts but this Christmas she felt distracted and off-task.

When she arrived, her boots were sodden and her mood low. There was a pile of paperwork on her desk and she was in no mood for silly festive behaviour. She'd snapped at the hall boys after breakfast when she caught them wasting time in the yard, and sent them off to the cottage to refill their wood pile for the fire. Charles would hate it but at least the boys would get a good swift kick of Carson authority.

She had to admit to herself she was tired, and a couple of hours spent sitting at her desk wading through paperwork was probably in order anyway, so she hid herself away and worked.

Thomas tapped at her door after lunch and went in, sitting himself at the opposite side of the desk. She had to admit, he wore the butler role well, it had been the making of him.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Barrow?" she asked, removing her glasses.

"How is Mr. Carson?"

"Improving. Hopefully, we're over the worst of it now."

"Good. Her Ladyship would like to see you when you have a moment."

Elsie rolled her eyes, "I was meant to go through final preparations with her, I've been so distracted."

"Perfectly normal."

"Perhaps, but perfectly not like me." She gathered her things together. "Are you all ready for the ball?"

"Yes, everything's on task. Did you receive the information on guests, rooms and so forth?"

"I did, it seems quite in order but I will go through it again and make my final plans. If you'll excuse me, I will go and find her Ladyship."

"Of course."

He followed her out into the hallway and she had this odd stinging feeling of not being at all prepared; a feeling she was unaccustomed to.

* * *

"Lady Mary will arrive on Wednesday," Cora said, her diary open.

"Very good your Ladyship. And will Lady Edith be joining us too?"

"Probably not until Christmas Eve. Will we have the space do you think, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I'm sure we will, the rooms will be ready…" she paused, her head suddenly spinning and her equilibrium momentarily slipping.

"Are you quite alright?" Cora got up from her desk, helping Elsie to sit. "Rest for a moment, do you feel faint?"

"No I just, oh, I just lost my balance for a moment."

"Have you perhaps contracted Mr. Carson's chill?"

"No I," she shook her head clear of the fog. "I think I'm just tired, he didn't sleep well for the past two nights and I didn't want to leave him alone."

"I understand that. But he's better today?"

"He's complaining, that could mean he's better."

Cora laughed at that, "You know if there's anything you need, anything we can do we would be happy. He holds a dear, dear place in our hearts."

"Thank you, your Ladyship. It is very much appreciated." She gingerly got to her feet, convincing herself she must take an early night, not least so her eyes could focus. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she bit her lip, "There is one thing."

"Go on."

"Well, you see, Mr. Carson has quite taken to the idea of providing for the poor this Christmas by expanding on the hampers we distribute."

"I see."

"He has plans to hold a fundraising event in the village, a family event, of course we need a Father Christmas…"

The corners of Cora's mouth twitched into a smile, "Yes?"

"They had asked Cha –, Mr. Carson, but I really don't feel he can, he doesn't have a natural affinity with children." Elsie said quickly. "What he really needs is a draw, something to convince people to come along and purchase a ticket."

"And you're wondering if Lord Grantham might make an appearance?"

"Something like that. Forgive me if you think it impertinent."

"Not in the slightest. Leave it with me, Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Carson doesn't have to be the only hero in the village."

* * *

"You're up and around," Elsie observed, surprised to find Charles in the kitchen when she came in.

"Ah, hello. I was just going to make cocoa. Thought you might be staying at the house."

"Sorry, I had to get things done."

"I understand, you know that."

She hung her coat and removed her shoes, sinking with relief into the warm rug by the fire.

"How have you been?" She asked.

"Fine, slept, tried to read by my eyes still won't work." Having put the milk to warm he came back to the lounge, returning to his chair by the fire.

"Is this cake?" Elsie noted the tin on the table.

"Fruit cake, gift from Mrs. Greenwood. And before you ask, no she did not walk all the way out here. But she did send it with Jack."

"Oh," Elsie suppressed a smirk. "He is becoming quite the regular visitor."

"We have things to arrange," Charles insisted, "It makes sense, whilst I can't do very much –,"

"I am not complaining. It's nice for you to have a friend, good for you too. I'll go finish that cocoa. Did you eat?"

"Yes, I had the leftover potatoes. Did you?"

"A little."

"You look tired."

"I am. Oh and I spoke to her Ladyship, she said she will mention the fundraiser to Lord Grantham."

"Elsie, you didn't?"

"I did, it's time we got on if you want to do this. Unless of course, you've changed your mind."

He shook his head, "No."

She set the cocoa down on the table, watching as he got up to poke at the fire.

"Are you quite sure you should be doing so much?"

"It's hardly much, and besides, I've rested all day again. Couple more days and Dr. Clarkson said I should be up to a visit to the hospital to see the little lad."

"Oh?" Elsie's eyes flashed.

"Yes. Which leads me to ask, why did you not mention they're travellers?"

She bit her lip, sinking into his empty chair – it was bigger, softer and warmer than hers. "It didn't cross my mind."

"You may be a plotter Elsie Hughes, but not to me."

"I didn't want it changing your opinion, clouding it. What you did was a kind, wonderful act regardless of religion or creed."

"I know. But I cannot deny it hasn't bothered me some, you know how I feel about all that business."

"I know. But it is their choice to live that way."

"Who knows if it didn't contribute to events."

"Charles really, don't say such things. It could have been anyone, any child in the village, they all play there."

He grumbled in the back of his throat and she got up from his chair, allowing him to sit down.

"I must go and change, we can talk some more when I come down."

"We don't need to, I have said what I feel."

She longed to say 'but maybe I haven't' but she didn't wish to upset him when he was still recovering. So instead she kept her opinions to herself and went to change.

There was an odd sound when she returned downstairs, something she was very much unaccustomed to in the home but delighted to hear. His singing. His throat was still sore so it was nothing more than a light grumble but it carried through the cottage like the heat from the fires.

She hovered at the bottom of the stairs, watching him lying on the sofa and dancing one hand around in the air as he tripped over the words.

"What's this?" She said, joining him.

He coughed, flustered and shy at being caught out, but when he saw the warmth and affection in her eyes he smiled. "Just popped into my head."

"It is easy to forget sometimes, Mr. Carson, that music was a part of your past. Quite a large part I might imagine."

"Indeed it was, we sang on stage almost every day. Though it's preposterous to think of it now."

"Is it?" She busied herself tidying away the newspapers he'd had that day, his book, his mug.

"I am far too old to even remember."

"Clearly you do, you recall the words quite easily." She took the chair opposite him. "Do you remember other things, tricks or the steps to a dance, perhaps?"

"Some things don't leave you."

"You know, we haven't danced together since our wedding day. I do hope you'll attend the ball, if only so I can steal a dance with my husband."

"That alone is reason enough to attend."

"That is, if you're well enough."

"Oh what a burden I have become."

"I would never use such terms." She got up from her chair, pouring two glasses of sherry. "Goodness I am tired tonight, I think I might drink this and be off to bed."

"Yes."

She handed him the glass then paused, "Are you allowed this with medication?"

"This is medication."

She sank into her chair again, sipping her sherry and closing her eyes.

He watched her for a long time, relaxing, exhausted but so fair, so pretty to him. He wanted to recover just so he could help her again, take on his share of tasks. She was only one woman, and despite her numerous skills, she couldn't do everything.

He too closed his eyes, melting into the warm relaxation of the room; it was rare to find somebody you could be quiet with, he knew that, yet they could be silent and enraptured. His brain wandered through memories and he soon found himself returning to the song he had been mumbling when she'd come downstairs. Only this time his half-sung words had an intended audience.

" _I care not what the world may say, or if it mock and jeer. I'd care not for its smiles and frowns, if you were always near. You are my very all in all, beneath the heaven's blue. And all else is as naught to me, the breath of life is you. All that I ask is love. All that I want is you. And I swear by all the stars, I'll be forever true."_


	14. Chapter 14

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **N – Night time**

 **December 14** **th,** **1926**

The trees were silhouettes, nothing but black skeletons against the midnight of the sky. A scattering of stars, and the still snow edged path, showed her the way. Still, it was dry and relatively warmer (if you could term it that) than previous evenings.

This close to Christmas it was a miracle if Elsie made it home before eleven, but she'd made a special effort and escaped as soon as she could without feeling she was shirking anything. She'd actually pretty much settled any qualms within herself; she'd given them enough years, it was time to at least have a little time with her husband. A night time together wasn't asking much.

They still hadn't put the tree up and Charles was superstitious about things like that, a relic of his childhood she presumed. And so that was the plan for their evening, decorating their cottage, and she'd been looking forward to it all day.

There was a steak and kidney pudding in her basket, that could warm in the oven whilst they placed the tree. Charles had arranged for it to be delivered and it had been waiting for three days now to find a spot in the house.

* * *

"It doesn't look quite right there. We aren't getting it right." Elsie said, standing by the kitchen table and watching as Charles once again stood back and huffed.

"Elsie, if we move it again it will be four times."

"But it needs to be right. We didn't have a tree last year."

"Because we were both at work all the time; is this tree to keep me company?"

She chuckled, "No, it's to bring some festive proceedings to our humble abode." She clicked her tongue, "Alright, last move, by the fire behind the sofa."

"I'm not sure real trees are meant to be moved around so often."

He took hold of the top of the tree and Elsie bent to grasp the bottom and slowly, together, they shifted it yet again.

"Now, that is as close to perfect as we might get," she said, standing back again. "I'm happy with that."

"Thank the Lord."

"You can sit down again now darling, thank you." She patted his arm and Charles returned to the sofa, lifting his legs up and watching Elsie carry across a box of decorations. Most were second-hand, some she'd made herself over the past month, others – only a few – were a treat he'd purchased on their recent trip to Ripon.

"Always start with the angel," she said, standing on her tiptoes to get it to the top.

Charles sighed happily at the sight of her dress stretching as she moved. "Can you reach?"

"Not quite, it's higher than I thought. Step stool I think."

"Hang on," he got up from the sofa and she turned, holding the angel out for him to take. "That wasn't quite what I had in mind," he said, placing his hands on her hips and gently steering her back around to the tree. He held her a little tighter and with very little effort lifted her high enough to reach the top. "There," he said, putting her back down. "Joint effort."

"That was very sweet of you," she said, bending to pick up the new box of electric lights they had purchased. They were expensive, for them, but hopefully worth it. "Do you think we shall be able to get these to work?"

"I am sweet," he said, waiting for her to stand again so he could kiss the back of her neck.

She was surprised by the touch, as sensitive as she was there, and she turned slowly, an enigmatic smile upon her face.

"That was very sweet too."

He took the box of lights from her, "I do believe we are quite intelligent enough to manage electricity, don't you?"

"How modern you sound," she said, sitting back to watch him unfold the lights, his chest puffed out as he attempted to prove his worth. She covered her mouth and giggled as he frowned at the wires. "Should I read the instructions aloud," she suggested, taking them from the box and Charles made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat but listened patiently as she started on 'step one'.

* * *

"I can't see my food," Charles complained, digging his fork into a piece of kidney.

"Oh hush," Elsie said, "it's rather romantic, don't you think, having the lights off and just the tree and the candles?"

"If one goes in for all that type of thing."

"Now don't fuss with me, Mr. Carson. I know you well enough by now to know there's a soft centre in there."

He smiled, putting his fork down and lifting his glass of red wine, "To a wonderful job, Mrs. Carson." He said, tapping his wine glass against hers.

"Thank you, and here's to you feeling well enough to sit and eat dinner with me. And us having the time."

"First proper meal in days," he said, sprinkling pepper over his gravy. "God bless, Mrs. Patmore."

"Excuse me."

He covered it quickly, "Just, a very good pudding. Her suet pudding is always outstanding."

"Mm, it is. Some days, I think you'd have rather married her." She teased, putting a potato into her mouth.

"Poppycock. She may be a wonderful cook, but you're Elsie."

"Oh…? And that makes a difference?"

"Yes. Love always does."

They shared a smile at that, over the top of their wine glasses.

In the middle of the table was a basket of pine cones which Charles had carefully arranged, a task he could be trusted with. On the hearth candles flickered, and above the fire a length of foliage Charles had managed to fix in place. She had yet to find the stockings she'd made the year before, but soon she would stuff them with oranges, nuts and the dried fruit he enjoyed so much. If she had time, there would be candy canes from the sweet shop in the village, and perhaps a chocolate animal that they always iced so beautifully with tiny facial details. On Christmas morning, it would be hanging from his favourite chair and they would open them early before they left for work, for he would still work Christmas morning with her, if he was well enough.

"I do love our little home," she said softly, gazing across at the tree.

"As do I, it's shaped up to be quite the refuge."

"You don't mind it then," she asked between chewing, "now that you've gotten used to it?" He frowned, and so she went on. "I mean, I sensed some reticence, in the early days, after we moved out of the Abbey."

"Nothing to do with you," he said quickly. "Nothing at all. Heaven forbid."

"You aren't always the easiest person to read, but I sensed you would work your way through it."

"It was… disconcerting, leaving the Abbey, I had lived there for most of my life."

She nodded, putting down her cutlery and pushing her plate away. "I understand that."

"It took some getting used to. But being here with you is far more than I ever imagined it could be."

There was a sense of pride at that, a tiny bud of it.

"I know I am not always easy… to live with, I mean. I accept that."

She shook her head, "Oh tush, we bumble along together just fine."

"What I mean is, what I'm trying to say, is that I… well, thank you, I suppose, at how you've taken care of me. I know it can't have been easy this past week, I know how hard you work."

She rested her chin in her hands, "In all our years together I believe that is the first time you have made such an absolute statement about the quality of my work."

"Come, Mrs. Hughes, you never needed it."

She chuckled, "Perhaps not."

"You surely knew?"

"Knew what?"

"That I think you the finest housekeeper in the country."

She felt her cheeks blush red, "I believe I was as in the dark about that as your proposal." She reached for her wine glass, "I'm meant to be the mysterious one."

"What do they say? Still waters run deep."

She lifted her chin, watching the play of the candlelight across his face, "Well then, I have always thought your ability to stand statue still for hours on end was quite remarkable.

He bowed his head, grateful of the compliment and the double meaning.

"Can I tell you something?" She said gently, her fingers laced together. "I've been meaning to tell you something."

"Of course."

"I am thinking of stepping back."

She stated it so calmly she surprised herself and Charles did nothing but stare at her for longer than necessary and then almost silently form the single syllable, "Oh."

"Not retirement," she insisted. "I am not quite ready for that. But perhaps fewer days, and I realise this will undoubtedly mean I am no longer housekeeper. I haven't thought it through entirely, I was hoping for your input I suppose. Perhaps a slightly different role," she shrugged. "I'm not sure."

He cleared his throat, "Why?"

"Honestly? Seeing you by that river and for one terrifying second thinking you were gone, and it would be too soon."

He swallowed, breathing deeply. He was reminded of a similar feeling, when he feared she had cancer.

"If you'll permit me to be just a tad sentimental for a moment, I feel this is getting better all the time. What we have here. What we've found. And we did so, so very late in life, and I don't want to dwell on what could have been but what is, what can be. I want to enjoy every moment, as short as it might be."

"I plan on living to a ripe old age."

She laughed, "Oh, I do hope so."

* * *

Later, she sat at one end of the sofa, her legs propped up on the footrest, and Charles' long body lay across the sofa with his head on a pillow in her lap. He was flagging, it being the first day he'd really gone without sleeping it away.

His eyes were closed but he did not sleep, he listened as his wife's beautiful lilting voice danced over the words as she read to him. Her hand rested on his chest beneath the blanket, and she could feel his heart beating beneath her palm.

Their small lounge was warm from the fire, aglow with the lights from the tree, and filled with the scents of Christmas; decorated with the freshness of holly, and the flowers on the coffee table. It was simple, some might call it quaint, but it was surprising the joy a festive decoration can bring. The embrace of the season, and its qualities.

" _I will honour Christmas in my heart_ ," she read, " _and try to keep it all the year_." She paused, marking the page with her hand as she let the book close. "What a wonderful idea."

"Mm," Charles mumbled.

"Are you asleep, Charlie dear?"

"Not yet. I was enjoying listening to you."

"I was enjoying reading to you, and I like that idea. The sentiment of that. Your efforts for the poor, for example, I wish we could continue that for more than the month of December."

"Perhaps we can," he yawned.

"Could be your legacy," she tousled his thick hair, unable to resist bending to kiss his forehead. "Amongst many others."

He mumbled again and she realised he was almost asleep. The restful expression he wore made her smile, her heart light, "I love you," she said, quietly, soothingly.

The night drew on.


	15. Chapter 15

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **O – Over the River and Through the Woods**

 **December 15** **th,** **1926**

 _The water is wide_ _  
_ _I cannot cross over_ _  
_ _And neither have I wings to fly_ _  
_ _Build me a boat_ _  
_ _That can carry two_ _  
_ _And both shall row, my love and I_

* * *

 _The river was vast. Hardly even a river anymore. It stood alone in its magnificence. A beautiful, tranquil scene that stretched to eternity. Out to the edge of existence. She walked to the edge, brave enough to dip not just a toe but her entire body as she waded in. She was courageous, bold and captivating. He kept his eyes fixed on the back of her head, the long plait hanging loose, freer than she had ever been before._

Charles woke with Elsie in his arms, it wasn't unusual for him to wake first, but over the past six or seven months he'd taken more of a backseat and, predictably, his body clock had responded. He slept more. It was a bi-product of not working, but oddly, it didn't mean he had more energy.

He lay for a long time enjoying the feel of her in his arms. Her head resting lightly on his upper arm, loose strands of hair coming free from her plait, a blush to her cheeks brought about by sleeping cuddled against him. It was comforting, having her there, waking with her, or before her, before she got up and readied herself for work.

There were another twelve minutes until her alarm would sound. He held her tighter.

He supposed it wasn't odd to still be dreaming of the river. His body was recovering, he hadn't given credence to his mind, or the remnants of the ice that might lodge there. He wasn't one for dwelling on things; one would never recover from anything if that were the case.

Outside he could hear rain battering the top of his shed, pattering the window pane. He closed his eyes and saw the river.

* * *

"Whatever are you doing here?" Elsie asked, closing her door behind her and coming to take Charles' coat. "You shouldn't be out on your own."

"You make me out some sort of dependent."

"No," she bid him to sit closer to the fire. "Just recovering. You've been quite ill."

"And now I'm feeling quite better."

"Not well enough to be walking distances in the cold and rain."

"It was less than a drizzle when I set off."

"Goodness Charles. I'll ask for tea, and then I really must get on, I have to supervise upstairs, I don't want the layout for the ball to be clumsily done. You know how the young lads can be."

"Quite." He slapped his legs, "I think I'll join you."

She raised her eyebrows, "Oh, and would anyone mind?"

"I should think not, I am official advisor."

"Hm, I'll fetch that tea. And one mince pie, no more."

"Has er, Mrs. Patmore made any of her sausage rolls?"

She huffed, but allowed him a smile, "I should think so. And, it is lunchtime, I suppose."

* * *

Charles hadn't caught sight of Elsie for a while, she had been distracted by her own tasks and he had immersed himself in the sights and sounds of the Abbey again. It reminded him of how it felt to be in command of the ship, the fleet responding to his every word. Thomas was finding his way but he had used Charles that day, had needed him, and with the two of them offering instructions things had been much more efficient.

He felt the draw of sleep by the time it reached three o'clock, and it saddened him to realise he really couldn't cut it anymore. He perhaps still had his uses, but they would one day be obsolete and he had a slow-moving realisation that it might be closer than imagined.

Escaping down the back stairs he took a route he'd taken perhaps a thousand times before, if not more, into the cold sterile corridor, down to the flutter of below stairs. The sound of Mrs. Patmore, the fragrance of rich food, that warming orange light and the knowledge Elsie's office was right next door to his own.

He stood for a moment in the stillness of that tight corridor, a hundred ghosts of memories sneaking by, staring at the closed door, the Butler's pantry. With effort, he placed his hand on the handle of her room and pushed it open, going in there instead.

What he saw startled him.

In the middle of the carpet was a pram, and inside a squirming little creature.

"Oh," he started, "hello." The baby gurgled and suddenly realisation kicked in, "Oh… John. Yes, now I see." He bent over the contraption and lifted a finger to tickle the baby's chin. "How's that then?"

The baby opened its mouth, silently blobbing its tongue before a sudden cry came forth that quite surprised Charles.

"No, don't… don't do that." He tried to jiggle the pram but the baby wouldn't stop and so he did the only thing he thought of, he lifted the baby into his arms. "Now then, we need to calm down, no need to be upset, making all that noise."

The door opened behind him and Anna rushed in, "Mr. Carson. I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Hughes said it would be alright."

"Of course it is, no bother at all. Little fellow just wanted some attention."

"He's hungry," she explained, "I need to feed him but we're rushing about." She sighed, "I'll find somewhere else; Mr. Bates has been called upstairs."

"No, no. You use the room," he handed the baby across. "I will go into the kitchen, find some tea."

He was flustered when he left the room, understanding the fact that she must have been removing her top… Blushing he went to sit in the staff dining area, taking the head seat without a second thought.

Around him servants rushed back and forth, but the room remained empty, and he sat for the longest time feeling like he was in a dream. When Elsie finally came down she went immediately to open her door and then spotted Charles, a warmth in her face as she came towards him.

"This seems familiar."

"I needed to escape."

She placed a hand on his forehead, "Tired?"

"No," he lied, "but Anna…" he flustered, "do you realise what she is doing in there?"

"No, oh, feeding John?"

"Yes, are you sure it's quite right? She must have," he shook his head. "It isn't right."

"Charles, all women have them, as you very well know."

He pursed his lips, looking quite put out, and she patted his shoulder with a smile.

"I need to walk to the village, to the post office and to collect a few things. Will you join me or should I get a car to take you home."

"You will do no such thing. I will walk with you."

* * *

It was agreed with Anna that a crying baby John would go with them into the village, as both parents were needed and there was no settling him to sleep even after he'd eaten. Elsie pushed the pram and Charles walked by her side.

"Odd situation," he noted, "one we might never have dreamed of."

"Perhaps not," she smiled down at the baby boy, "but a very lovely one nevertheless."

He glanced to her face, the jaunty angle of her hat shifting as she bent to rearrange the baby's blankets. "Do you remember, as a child, the joy of Christmas?"

"I do indeed, though we had very little. I remember the joy of it, singing, huge family gatherings, grandparents."

"That is just what I was thinking of. My grandparents." He rubbed his thumb against his palm. "Did you see yours often?"

"Quite, I suppose. They were the other side of the woods, Becky and I would run through them when we were young, we could get from door to door in less than fifteen minutes I suppose."

"It sounds like fairy tale."

She chuckled, "Little Red Riding Hood? I would have loved a red coat as a girl. Ironically, Becky was always afraid of that. Wolves. She took the tale literally."

"I'm so glad you feel you can talk more freely about her now. Share things with me."

"As am I. All the things we share." She waited as he opened the gate and closed it behind them. "And your grandparents?"

"My grandmother was quite formidable, I suppose my grandfather less so, I spent more time with him than my own father it seemed. Father was working most of Christmas."

"We both know it to be our busiest time."

"Yes. Grandfather was skilled, a craftsman, if he hadn't gone into service I wonder what he might have done. One year he made a sledge, it was the finest gift I ever received."

"What a lovely tale."

John gurgled in the pram and pushed his fists out from beneath the blankets, his face scrunching as he searched the faces of the two people glancing down at him.

"We're not his parents, we can offer little comfort," Charles observed as they reached the post office.

"Maybe not, but we can try." She lifted the baby out of the pram and jiggled him about, "He needs keeping warm. Affection." She kissed his head. "I must go in here; can you cope without me?"

"I should think so," she handed the baby across and after a few seconds of grasping him as one might a bag of potatoes he snuggled him against his chest, wrapping his blanket around him.

"There, you see, you make a fine grandfather."

* * *

He dreamt of the river again that night. A vastness he thought he'd never conquer. The blank emptiness, loneliness, isolation. She'd been brave enough to dip a toe in but in the end they'd crossed it together.


	16. Chapter 16

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **P – Pudding**

 **December 16** **th,** **1926**

"Rest day," Elsie had instructed, with a kiss to his lips and a wave as she got down the path. He waved in return then stuffed his hands in his pockets and sulked for the next hour about being confined to their cottage for another day.

She was right, in a way, he had perhaps moved too quickly the day before and, she was also right, he could spend the time catching up on correspondence and writing the last of their Christmas cards. It was still something of a joy to him to scrawl _Mr. and Mrs. Carson_ and he enjoyed each and every card he signed.

Realising he had less than a week to go, he made a makeshift mask out of new dishcloth – and hoped Elsie wouldn't miss it – and went to put a final coat of paint onto the rocking chair.

It was whilst locking up the shed that he heard a rattle of the gate behind him, the rough drag of wheels over gravel. He was keenly aware of the paint on his hands, the dishcloth scrunched in his pocket.

"Mr. Carson," Anna said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Whatever are you doing out here in the cold?"

"Mrs. Bates," he met her on the path, "and little John I see."

"Today is my day off, we thought we'd take a walk and drop by to see you." She glanced down, ever curious, "Goodness, what's on your hands?"

"Let's get inside," he said, "I'll explain."

* * *

"The tree looks wonderful," Anna said, taking off her coat. "In fact, all of the decorations."

"Elsie wanted to make an effort."

Anna smiled, watching as Charles put water on to boil.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, only to drop something off."

"I don't mind, it's good to see people. And the little lad, should I get him anything?"

"He'll have a go at pretty much anything you put in front of him these days, food wise I mean. Got his father's appetite."

Charles watched as Anna lifted him from his pram and sat down in Elsie's chair, the boy wriggled in her lap, seeking freedom, and so Anna placed him on the floor and watched as he crawled across the rug.

"He can move."

"His muscles are so much stronger now, and he's so aware of things, already." Anna took a teddy bear from the pram and placed it down on the floor along with a soft ball. "Should entertain him."

Charles wasn't entirely sure how he felt about baby things taking over his lounge but there was little he could do now that she was in and, seemingly, comfortable.

He made tea, put out slices of the fruit cake Mrs. Greenwood had sent, along with cheese and an apple. Elsie would never forgive him if he didn't appear welcoming.

"So, may I ask what was happening in the shed?"

"Well, you might be able to help, actually."

"Oh?"

She watched as he carried the tray across, thinking how disturbingly odd it was to have Mr. Carson serving her.

"The thing is it is Elsie's Christmas present, one of them, a rocking chair and I've been painting it green."

"Oh, how lovely."

"Yes, but I need cushions, you see. I haven't quite gotten around to it, what with being ill."

Anna sipped her tea, perfecting that motherly of all tasks by keeping one eye on her child and the other on Charles. "You quite surprised us all, Mr. Carson."

"I quite surprised myself," he said. "I should visit the boy really… but… well."

Anna frowned, "Why wouldn't you?"

"Oh well, it doesn't matter really. I did what I did. It doesn't matter now."

"I think it matters an awful lot, if my boy was ever in any kind of danger and you did what you did I would never find enough words to thank you."

John had turned at the edge of the carpet and rolled the ball to Charles' foot; he bent his arm down, took the ball and rolled it back. John delighted in the contact and smiled gleefully, crawling quickly across the rug with the ball squashed in one hand.

"What kind of cushions?" Anna asked.

"Red ones, I thought, perhaps some kind of decoration – I don't know, this is not my kind of thing. Perhaps I should just allow Elsie to choose her own."

"You could. Or I could help."

"Can you?"

"Of course, I'm sure I could manage something between now and Christmas morning. I may have to purchase material."

"I will happily reimburse you for your time and efforts."

"Oh no, Mr. Carson, just the cost of materials. You did take care of John yesterday. Which is, in fact, why we're here." She got up from her seat and fussed in a bag until she produced a pudding bowl. "Christmas pudding. I made a batch a while ago, Mr. Bates enjoys them, but I know you like them too and I wanted to thank you for taking John yesterday. I know it was not at all a professional position and you'd have your doubts about hiring me, I'm sure, had I just arrived."

"My dear, you have proved yourself time and again, I have not one doubt over your skills."

She smiled sweetly handing the pudding across.

"But I do thank you for this." He popped it onto the table and turned to see John looking up at him, large curious eyes. "Right then, what are you doing little man?"

* * *

When Elsie got home there was the sound of laughter in the lounge and the warmth of the fire had spread through the house. She hung her hat and coat and headed down the hallway, surprised to find Charles on the floor playing with a baby.

She folded her arms, pursing her lips and staring at him as he rolled onto his back and John crawled over his chest.

"Elsie," he exclaimed.

"Good afternoon, you look quite comfortable down there." She chuckled as he scrambled to his knees, holding onto the baby. "Hello Anna dear, very nice of you to pop round."

"She brought pudding," Charles said, his cheeks reddening.

"Did she now? Now I understand the appeal." She smiled discreetly at Anna. "Has he made you quite welcome?"

"Absolutely, he's been sharing his ideas for the fundraising evening in the Grantham Arms. It sounds wonderful."

"It does, but I don't want him to push himself."

"Not an invalid," Charles said bobbing John about on his arm in front of the mirror.

"I'm sure Mr. Bates and I could assist, I will discuss it with him tonight."

"You have a full time job and a child," Elsie said, "But thank you. And thank you for the pudding, I'm sure we'll enjoy that later."

"You're welcome, we best get going, I didn't realise it had gotten so late."

"I'll walk you," Charles offered, handing John across to her. "Wouldn't want you on your own in the dark."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson." She knew better than to try and refuse his offer.

"Dinner will be ready when you return," Elsie said, tying his scarf around his neck. "Be careful," she whispered, "I mean that."

* * *

"Do you think I'm foolish?" Charles asked as Elsie placed bowls on the table and handed him a serving spoon.

She raised her eyebrows, "This is a loaded question."

"Elsie, please, be serious."

"Well, foolish over what? If you mean John then no, I think the role suits you perfectly, even if you don't want to admit it." She used a towel to carry the steaming pudding to the table, and watched as Charles lit the brandy on top. "Oh well done, lovely touch."

He spooned pudding into their bowls and Elsie poured brandy sauce over the top, "This is a real treat."

"Isn't it just."

She went to sit at the other end of the table but stopped when he touched her arm, "Sit next to me."

"I mean foolish over the Irish lad."

"Oh, him," she put her spoon down, a little annoyed he would ask this just as she was about to eat.

"I have my views."

"You do."

"You think they're foolish, that I am?"

She folded her hands, rested her chin on her knuckles, "I think your views are outdated in some ways. I think you saved his life and you deserve to at least meet him once and see what you did. Regardless of his parents' lifestyle choices or heritage. How would it be if you didn't like Scottish people when I arrived at the Abbey?"

"That's silly, we aren't involved in conflict."

"No, but we were once."

"Hundreds of years ago," he said, exasperated.

"Conflict is conflict, and you're too good a man really to let your outdated views get in the way of something important."

"And you think this is?"

"Absolutely," she lifted her spoon again. "You're a wonderful man, my darling, it just took you at while to let him out."

"I find it easier when you call me an old grump."

"Well, I'm sure he won't have disappeared entirely."


	17. Chapter 17

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **Q – Question**

 **December 17** **th,** **1926**

It started with a question, that wintry morning.

The windows still frosted over, the room only a degree or so above outdoors. And Charles reluctantly rolled out of bed with the intention of relighting their fire. Only the moment his feet touched the floor his bladder came to life and he headed into the bathroom.

When he came back Elsie was lying on her back but cuddled beneath the sheets. He smiled, and bent to the fireplace. It was her morning off. He had her to himself.

"Shall I make tea?" He asked as he got to his feet again and her eyes were closed as she hummed her response.

He disappeared downstairs, put the kettle on to boil and lit another fire to warm through downstairs. He carried the tea upstairs on a tray with a few shortbread rounds, because if there was something Elsie could make well, it was shortbread.

"This is like having my own butler," she said gently, as he placed the small tray on the bedside table and got back into bed. "Oh, and biscuits too, how very decadent."

"Well, it isn't often I get to spoil you."

Her eyes widened, and she flopped onto her back stretching her arms and shaking her head – _Charles Carson, wanting to spoil her_.

They sat side by side in bed sipping their tea, she munched her way through one shortbread, Charles devoured three.

"I wondered if you would like to have lunch later, before you return to work."

"That's quite a treat… unless you mean at home with me preparing it."

"I rather thought the Grantham Arms, if it's quite suitable an establishment."

She finished her tea, "Oh I think if it's good enough for Mr. Carson then I can probably lower myself to it." She chuckled as she handed her tea cup across to him. "I suppose I best get up and get started on the day."

"Oh? Not just yet, surely?"

Her eyebrows rose again and she pursed her lips, "Oh…? Did you have something else in mind?"

"Just a… a cuddle… maybe…" he blushed and she chuckled again, sinking back beneath the warm bedsheets and fixing him with one of her knowing looks.

He moved down beside her, his arms circling her waist as he pulled her to him, kissing her forehead and holding her closer. He closed his eyes, rested his chin in her hair and sighed happily.

Elsie held him in return, a hand to his chest, one pressed against his upper arm. The sound of his heart beating, his breath in her hair, lungs expanding, blood pumping. Outside the defrost as the sun found its way.

A brush of lips to her forehead again, to her hairline. His fingers on the back of her neck, oh she was delicate there, if he tiptoed the pad of his fingers down the back of her neck she would sigh happily.

He used a hand to brush her hair back from her face and kissed her temple, her cheek, beneath her chin. She lay back against the pillows, and he rearranged himself, bending to kiss her collar bone. The hollow at her neck. That dear freckle. She smelled of shortbread and home; warmth in winter.

She noted the change in his breathing, closed her eyes, let her hands wander into the thickness of his hair as he worshipped her with kisses. When he moved back to the pillow beside her she turned immediately and sought his mouth, a whisper of a kiss at first, that still same restrained nervousness but beneath it all – perfection.

"Would you mind," he whispered, heavy hooded eyes as he took in the sight of her. "I mean, rather, I would really rather like." He licked his lips and she touched his face, moving her other hand to open the top of her nightdress. Whatever he wanted, she didn't mind, she never could. He kissed her again instead, deeper this time, catching her breath.

"Would I mind what?"

He thought of all the questions he could ask her, a flash of such time and the inconveniences of life, the bits you let go when you shouldn't. The things you fear and so walk away from.

He leant closer to her ear, "Would you mind very much if I kissed you… your body?"

She smiled ruefully against the side of his neck, pressing a kiss to the pulse point there and nodded her head, "I wouldn't mind."

She let him undress her, he seemed to like doing that, she had learnt that very quickly. And then he took his time, in the icy blue light of that morning. A winter day. A week until Christmas and nothing else mattered but how it felt to be with her.

His mouth on her chest, one hand bravely cupping her breast. Lips gentle in their tiptoeing over the flushed pink of her nipples and then she arched her hips and he knew he was doing something right. Exploring together was the most wondrous part of married life. The freedom that came with it.

She allowed him to turn her, where she would usually have been embarrassed but over a year had passed and those worries were nothing but a memory. Love was as much a part of this as any physical need.

She shuddered when his fingers touched the curve of her waist, he knew she was sensitive there and she always leaned up to him, her skin seeming to shift beneath his fingers. A kiss to each shoulder blade, the thinness of the skin over the bone, the warmth in the middle of her back. He could bury his face there and hibernate.

When she squirmed back over so she could look up at him her face was flushed, his eyes dark, and she lay back and watched as he removed his pyjama top.

So, this was what power felt like.

Her fingernails trailed down the exposed skin, still firm, still strong. And down to his belly. The familiar movement of one body to the other, between her thighs, a tingling of joy as his mouth touched hers. She wasn't passive though, and he would never have expected such; one free hand pushing at his trousers, a foot helping them down and her heated question in his ear, "Do you love me?"

"To my soul."

* * *

He was smiling as they walked to the village, holding hands, quite inappropriate for a couple their age but he was happy, content. He nodded to the villagers they passed, unaware that their wishes of well-being were due to his heroic efforts. He was simply proud to be out with his wife, and her him.

"Jack, this is my wife."

"We have met before, Charles," she laughed, shaking Jack's hand. "Though now you appear to be my husband's friend, so perhaps things are different."

"Well, I think of you now as Mrs. Carson," Jack said, "and will Mr. and Mrs. Carson be requiring a table?"

"We will indeed," Charles said, removing his hat. "And do you still have those hot pork sandwiches on the lunch menu?"

"For you sir, I'm sure we can rustle something up."

He was tempted to hold her hand through lunch, though held back; beneath the table her knee touched his and he took pleasure in that alone.

"I want to be alone with you again," he whispered huskily as she poured their tea, spilling a drop or two in his saucer.

"Charlie, really." She glanced up to check nobody was close.

"Won't you take the afternoon off?"

"You're asking a great many things of me today," she smiled kindly, "and it is not at all what I have come to expect."

"You've changed me," he admitted, "and it's wonderful."

She smiled broadly at that, chewing on her lip to try and hold it back.

"You know I have to go, and you have jobs to do. Deliver those cards, perhaps stay here and make firm plans with Jack about Christmas Eve. Then there's the advertising, the word of mouth. You know, you could reply to that nice young journalist who has been asking for an interview."

"Oh tosh, you know how I feel about that. I have no trumpet to blow."

She giggled behind her teacup. "Perhaps not dear, but a well phrased word here and there in the local paper about your initiative might bring in support as well as generating interest."

He frowned. He hadn't considered that, perhaps he ought to.

"You have his card, I popped it into your jacket pocket."

 _Did she now?_

She finished her tea, "Walk with me a little, to the house."

* * *

He did as she asked, the sun warming as afternoon neared, almost blinding in the white-grey sky.

"You are quite up to it, aren't you?" She asked.

"Up to what?"

"Those tasks this afternoon, I don't wish for you to over exert yourself, as they say."

"Who says?"

"Nobody. People. Books."

"I always thought some of your reading material a little risqué."

She laughed, "That sums me up perfectly darling."

They paused at the gate, she straightened his tie, stood on her tiptoes to kiss his check and he held her, his hands firm on her upper arms.

"Now, go home if you do feel tired. And stay warm."

"I will. Should you be home late?"

"I hope not but we'll see, there is broth to warm, you could get bread in the village."

"Yes."

"Alright," she kissed him again, flashbacks to being in his arms, naked, riddled with pleasure. "I shall see you later."

"You will," he squeezed her hands before she walked away, unlocking the gate and going through, closing it behind her.

"Elsie," he suddenly called, "I'll miss you."

She smiled, her eyes sparkling.

"You'll be far too busy to."

He chuckled, "Do you really believe that?"

A question she didn't need to answer.


	18. Chapter 18

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **R – Reading**

 **December 18** **th,** **1926**

She had said two little words to him. Two words that had sustained him throughout the day. Whenever he thought there was too much to do, and Christmas was too close, or that organising with people who weren't properly trained or used to following orders was going to kill him… he thought of those two words and instantly relaxed.

Yorkshire. Pudding.

Oh thank the heaven's for it. She'd made beef stew the night before, left it on very low whilst they sat playing dominoes before bed (she had won five games, he three – she quit whilst ahead). And there would be stew and Yorkshire Puddings for dinner and just the thought of it made him peckish the whole day through.

As it was he was feeling considerably better, refreshed; he'd slept long and deeply without waking to cough or in a fever. The first proper night's sleep since the accident. There was a weight off his mind too; Jack had agreed the Grantham Arms could be used Christmas Eve for the party, and he had done the newspaper interview (grudgingly) in order for word to be spread. There was still the matter of Father Christmas, and organising entertainment. But that would come, in time, he would sit and make a detailed list that evening of all the requirements. He was thankful for Jack, he'd barely known him a month before, now he was giving of his time and, perhaps more importantly, his establishment. He'd make money from sales of drinks of course, but it was a family event and children were messy, noisy and unpredictable.

The reality was he had the time to do these things, the demand for him up at the house had lessened somewhat this year and, though it stung, he had to accept it for what it was. Filling his time with other projects would maybe help.

Elsie hadn't mentioned the idea of semi-retirement again, but then they had hardly had the time to really discuss it. Perhaps he would broach it tomorrow, before church, when they had their quiet morning together.

He took the back door into the house, closing it behind him and breathing in the goodness of being back. It was as close to home as he'd ever been, until the cottage and Elsie and the home she'd made for the both of them. He took the few steps down to the hall, and he could hear raucous laughter, the unmistakeable sound of his wife's voice, Mrs. Patmore's extravagant laughter, Anna and Daisy's giggles.

They paused abruptly when they noticed him appear in the door, tall and foreboding in his hat, wet from the drizzle of rain.

"Mr. Carson," Daisy said and Elsie turned from facing the others to find herself almost up against his chest.

"Hello, are you early?"

"I believe I am perfectly on time," he said, looking from face to face.

"Sorry, we were just having a moment, I'll get my coat." She squeezed his arm and then disappeared off down the hallway leaving him alone with the women, not his most comfortable of situations though he was loved dearly by all.

"So, then Mr. Carson, throwing a shindig we hear," Mrs. Patmore said.

"A shindig?" he frowned.

"At the Grantham Arms, Mr. Carson," Daisy added. "We'll all be there."

"Well, I'm glad of that Daisy. It will be a family event, respectable, certainly not a _shindig_."

The ladies all seemed to smirk and he had no idea what was so amusing but Anna stepped close to him and stood to kiss his cheek, "We all miss you, Mr. Carson," she said, and there was genuine affection in her voice.

"Whatever is this about?" He questioned and then Elsie was there, tying her scarf in place.

"Are you ready?"

He nodded, confused, and bid the others goodnight.

* * *

Outside she took his arm, holding on tight to be steady on the damp and rapidly freezing path.

"What an odd day," she noted as they set off. "Look at this wonderful sky, so clear. It's crisp out here."

"Whatever was so funny?" He blurted out. "And why did Anna kiss me?"

"Anna kissed you?"

"She did. I am not comfortable with being the source of amusement despite my diminished status."

She stopped, "Hold on, what are we arguing about?"

"Are we arguing?"

"Well your tone towards me is certainly argumentative."

He started them walking again, "I am not arguing. I am merely stating –,"

"We weren't laughing at you Charles. Goodness."

"What then? Who? Why was I involved?"

"You weren't, as far as I know. We were laughing at Thomas."

"Oh," he held the gate open for her and they took the path towards the village rather than home. "Whatever for?"

"Because he often likes to think he knows it all, like many men I've known, and he doesn't. That's all. And we found it amusing at the end of a long and busy day. You remember how it is."

"The camaraderie of working together. Sorry I was grumpy."

She squeezed his arm, "Anna kissed you, did she?"

"Said they all miss me."

"Of course they do, as sharp as you can be you're also kind and people recognise that Charlie." Her hand slid down his arm to grip his hand. "People respect authority and order, but they work for someone they love, someone who they know is working for them too. Someone they can rely on to be kind if ever a moment arises where they might need it."

He felt his cheeks warming, "Did you read the article?"

"We all did, Mrs. Patmore pinned a copy to the noticeboard too. Who would have thought, my famous husband?" She smiled, leaning against him, "Please don't go kissing any other girls though."

"Elsie," he admonished but chuckled anyway with her.

* * *

Charles had little patience for hospitals.

They reminded him, as he was sure they did everyone, of the deaths of his parents. That white everywhere. And stony faces. Metal beds, bedpans, something odd about the scent of food against that medicinal pungency.

He shook his hands together in frustration, waiting for Elsie to find information out about where the child was. If he had gone home, all the better, he wouldn't have to try and find the words. How did one speak to a four-year-old traveller about a near-death experience?

Tutting and puffing he wandered a little, down a corridor, glancing back every now and then for Elsie but once he'd set his route and got going there was no turning back. He peeked in through open doors to wards, nodded amiably at nurses, and nobody stopped him so he kept going. How easy it would be to sneak in here, he thought to himself.

And then he was there, the kitten he saved from the bucket, the boy from the iced river. He could still feel the weight of him in his hands, the pull on his wrists as the water fought to keep him. Sodden and dragging on him.

He breathed deeply, stepped in through the doorway and cleared his throat. Every child in the ward looked up.

"You're Mr. Carson," some broad Yorkshire accent said, "I'm Samuel Brown, I broke my leg. You want to sign the pot? We saw you in the paper today."

Charles looked down to where the chirpy chap lay reading a comic book.

"Ere, come sign my pot when's you done his," another lad said and Charles found himself quite disorientated.

"Yeah Mister, sign my arm too. And the newspaper."

Charles held his hands up, "I will happily oblige, but right now I came to see this young man."

The quiet little boy, like a half-fledged thing, held his gaze with saucer-like dark eyes, so brown they were almost black.

"I'm Tommy," he said, his voice the tiniest tinniest thing.

Charles held out his hand, standing by the side of the bed, "I'm Mr… I'm Charlie, pleased to meet you."

His hand felt warm, clammy but warm, and his skin was pink and flushed.

"May I?" Charles said, indicting the seat by the bed. He removed his hat and sat down.

"Mam says I gotta thank you, for what you did. I can't remember it though see."

"I can, unfortunately."

"Was I dead?" The boy asked, squirming round on his pillows. "I think I was."

"No, I don't think you were dead."

"Mam says she prayed to Jesus to bring me back. And Mother Mary."

"Nothing wrong with that," he really wasn't very good with spiritual talk, he still struggled to find the words to tell Elsie how he loved her. "It doesn't do to dwell on upsetting things. Much better to think of the good instead."

"Doctor says I should be home Christmas Eve."

"There you see, that's a good thing."

"Yes Mister, and I hope to get a present this year. I wanted a spinning top, have you seen them?"

He thought of the one George had back at Downton. "Yes."

"I really like my sleigh," Tommy said, pointing to where it stood on the bedside table. "The boys are jealous I got it."

"I was proud of it as a boy too, it's a real work of art, fine construction." He realised he was probably going over the boy's head. "Have you had dinner yet?"

"Nope. We usually get something soon though. Not meat pie again though, that makes me feel sick."

"Least you're eating, that's good," Charles said, rigid in his chair, thinking of his Yorkshire Pudding. "What's this?" He touched the book that lay closed on the boy's lap.

"They bring us books in the afternoon, trouble is, I don't read too good, I just look at the pictures but most of them had gone and I had this one three times now."

"They need a wider selection of books," Charles noted, taking hold of the one on the bed.

* * *

Elsie hurried down the corridor searching for Charles, worried he'd changed his mind and gone outside, or even worse, that he'd taken a funny turn again.

She paused when she got to the children's section, scanning every room until she reached one for young boys. Slowing, she caught her breath, hung her handbag back on her arm and made her way inside.

By the glass door she stopped. And smiled.

Charles was reading to the boy, and the boy was laughing. A sweet, wondrous sound. She stepped inside, listening as Charles altered his voice to suit the characters, as he growled like a tiger or slithered like a snake over his words. The other boys listened too, enraptured, he had them in the palm of his hand.

She'd always loved his voice. Commanding, yes, but as deep and luxurious as velvet.

He caught her eye momentarily and she gave him a warm smile and a nod. He could go on reading, she would wait. As long as it took.


	19. Chapter 19

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **S – Stockings**

 **December 19** **th,** **1926**

Life would never be the same again.

Bells had rung. Clouds shifted across the globe. Somewhere in the universe another star born.

And Charles Carson had seen his wife in her stockings.

It was purely accidental of course. He would never have intended to invade her privacy. They had wordlessly made certain arrangements and bedroom bathroom privacy was part of it.

Yet he hadn't realised she was still in the bedroom that morning, and neither had she realised he was there, as he pushed the door – still in his pyjamas, going in to get his clothes for the day, and she was leaning against the bedframe without a dress on. His breath had stopped. Not caught in his throat, not quickened or deepened, but stopped. Everything stopped. His blood held its position, settled and fluttered before beginning its progress around his body.

There was something in the air, some stinging sharpness that landed in his lungs and filled him with sensations he hadn't allowed to enter his consciousness before.

Black stockings. Creamy pale skin. Her legs, coated in the thin material, her hand trailing up them as she went to clip them to the suspenders. Oh lord. Heavenly blessed lord that had created this most perfect of moments.

He had seen stockings and suspenders before of course, back in his stage days, girls kicking their legs up as part of their performance. And the cramped changing spaces, flimsy curtains that didn't hide much, and he was young, he had wanted to see and know even if he hadn't touched.

But this, well, this was different. This was his Elsie.

She was stunning, quite simply, and his immediate, unquestioning response was to touch. To find out what that material felt like against her legs, to unclip them, to kiss her there, right there, at the top of her thighs where material left skin bare and unclaimed. He would claim it.

She let her leg down from the bed, stood straight and her slip fell down covering the tops of her legs.

Guilt kicked in as she reached for her next garment. She didn't know he was there and he was invading her space when she hadn't asked for it, and that was unfair. He backed out as silently as he'd arrived and tiptoed back downstairs.

* * *

There were eggs for breakfast, and thick cut toast, strong tea. It was snowing outside again and they sat in the warmth of their dining area as white filled the air.

Afterwards, when she went to clean the dishes, he had sat staring at her back for the longest time. Sucking on his tongue like a petulant schoolboy with a score to settle.

"Are they new?" He suddenly asked and she twisted to look back at him.

"What?"

"There are lines, on your… your things…" he waved his hand towards her legs.

She glanced down, "They're seams dear, all the fashion now. And yes, they are new."

He cleared his throat, reached for his tea cup, "I am not sure they're appropriate for church."

"Oh… aren't you? Well all the women wear them now, even your beloved Lady Mary."

"That's different."

"How so?"

"Because she's… and you're… Well, my wife."

She dried her hands on a towel and turned to face him, breathing deeply, lips pursed.

Charles puffed out his chest and got to his feet, "I am not sure I can approve."

"Luckily, you don't have to." She said defiantly. "I like them, and I'm wearing them today."

* * *

He was frozen in church. It was painful to sit beside her, physically painful, keenly aware now of what was beneath the dress. There was a world of wonder beneath that dress.

When they rose to sing the morning hymn he closed his eyes and imagined those suspenders moving with her. He thought of her secret places saved just for him.

She was looking up at him curiously when he opened his eyes, and she pointed out where they were in the hymn book so he could catch up. Shaking her head, clearly annoyed with him.

He hadn't meant to sound so commanding, and he knew she wouldn't like it, but sometimes his tongue bit out words before he'd had chance to think them through. He was far from angry with her. He wanted nothing more than to…

He sighed heavily and she glanced at him again, eyes squinted, confused.

"What's wrong?" She mouthed as he fussed with his collar, suddenly feeling very hot. He shook his head, he knew better than this. He was an upright, smart, well-turned out professional man who held a respectable position in society, in the village, there was no room to be fixating on his wife's damned stockings.

* * *

"I won't be late back," she said, putting her gloves on outside of church. "We can eat when I get home. If that suits you, of course," she said pointedly.

"It does," he was equally as cold. How had he managed to upset her when all he wanted to do was ravish her? "I get things back to front," he said softly, away from other ears.

She frowned, "You're in an odd mood this morning, what happened? Was it last night, the hospital?"

He shook his head, "Nothing."

"What did you mean?"

He swallowed, "Nothing." He touched her arm, "Have a good day."

"You too." She kissed his cheek. "Careful in the snow, don't rush. Why not go see Jack?"

"I will, I have jobs to do, don't worry, plenty to fill my time."

* * *

It had driven him to distraction.

No matter the time, the job, the people he was conversing with, there it was – her legs in stockings. There were clearly some things created as a means of torture, this was both mental and physical. The long, dreary hours, the hot heaviness in his loins.

Dear Elsie. _Elsie. Elsie. Elsie._

He walked home to the rhythm of her name and the beat of it in his heart. Through the snow, a couple of inches now, the quiet Sunday streets.

He wondered if Tommy watched it through the hospital windows, whether the lad would ever be brave enough to play in winter weather again.

He wondered if it would be a white Christmas. If it would dampen spirits or attendance at his organised event.

He wondered if perhaps it would snow all day and she'd be at the abbey for the night, leaving him to sleep alone.

That made him stop. His shoes melting prints into the snow.

"Silly old man," he muttered to himself before setting off again.

* * *

By the time the clock struck nine he had given up hope of her returning for the night. It made his chest ache. He supposed he might as well make cocoa, change for bed, eat toast by the fire and shortbread and dwell on the loss of a day spent mulling on something so ridiculous as female undergarments.

He had lived a life without the knowledge of such things. He had lived and coped. Oh but how sweeter life seemed now.

When the back door opened and she came in, flustered and covered in snow, his blood paused again.

"Heavens it's coming down," she said, unpinning her hat, shaking the snow loose. "Didn't think I'd make it."

"Did you walk alone?" He asked then cursed himself for even asking a question and not taking control of the situation. "How was the day?"

"Fine, busy obviously, you know this time of year. The younger staff are getting giddy."

"Thomas needs to stamp it out. I would."

"I'm sure."

He frowned, inwardly cringing, clearly the ice hadn't melted.

"Are you quite alright today? Whatever's the matter, you don't seem yourself?"

"Something happened," he said, still rigid by the fire, hiding behind his chair.

She removed her coat, hung it in the hall and came back to him, "Now, tell me what happened. Nothing we can't work through together."

He tilted his chin, closing his eyes, "It isn't appropriate."

"Whatever is it, Charlie, goodness?"

"I saw you."

"When?"

"This morning, getting dressed – I hadn't meant to," he added quickly. "It was all a rush, I walked in and you were dressing and I saw."

"That's nothing scandalous, you've seen my body before."

"Stockings…" he exhaled, long and slow. "You were in your stockings."

She bit her lip, suppressing a smile, "Oh. And you disapprove of my seams."

"Quite the contrary, I've been fascinated by them all day."

She laughed at that, "Oh my dear."

"I'm quite distracted," he admitted, "they've filled my mind."

She laughed again, covering her mouth. "Well, who would have thought?"

"I know it's wrong."

"Why?" She shook her head, pressing her palms flat against his chest, "You're my husband. And I am flattered that you're so enraptured by something as ordinary as my stockings."

"I am absolutely enraptured, and there is nothing ordinary about them."

"Charlie, have you never seen stockings before?"

"Yes, but never on you, never close up. I'm fascinated by how they fit, how they work." He grasped her arm, "How they looked on you."

Her eyes flashed – excitement, desire. "I'm going to change." She said, giving him a knowing look and heading towards the staircase.

* * *

"Ow!" She yelped as the belt snapped against her leg.

"Sorry, sorry," he pressed a kiss to her leg.

"How I showed you, use your thumb underneath, hold it still and flip it out."

"Very fiddly for hands as big as mine."

She gazed down at him as he concentrated and focussed on the device. "Wondrous," he observed, kissing her again.

Elsie lay back on the bed, allowing him to unclip her stockings and slide them down her legs.

"Be careful," she instructed. "They easily snag."

"I will," he was reverent, worshipping as he kissed her knees, her ankles, lifted her leg and kissed the sole of her foot. "My beautiful wife," he whispered, "in beautiful stockings."

"You know I've worn them each and every day that we've known each other."

He pressed his hands to the bed, staring down at her with wide dark eyes, "That is not fair."

"To me they are normal."

"To me they are torture."

She giggled, "Are you done now? Shall we go have cocoa?"

He loosened his shirt collar, "Not just yet…"


	20. Chapter 20

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **T – Tree**

 **December 20** **th,** **1926**

Only a year ago it would never have occurred to Charles that he would not be entrenched in the goings on at the house. It was something of a body blow, confidence wise, to find that like it or not things ticked along quite as they always had. Life went on.

Sitting in Elsie's office, by the dwindling fire, he could but listen to the noise out in the hallway. Orders being barked, rushing back and forth, the clattering of heels and muffled voices.

He sank back in the chair, closed his eyes and absorbed himself in it all. This was part of him, his heritage, his existence. It would be foolish to claim he didn't miss it, but it would be equally as foolish to ignore the fact that actually he had moved on. There were other things creeping in, beginning to fill the spaces, and he wasn't – not for one minuscule cold second – unhappy. Quite the contrary.

"Sorry," Elsie said, rushing in, a tray in her hand. "Here you go."

Tea and porridge. He would usually have stayed at home, but he was up early with her and fancied the walk. Plus it was icy, white over, and he'd rather make sure she got there safely than worry at home.

"What time's your appointment?"

"He said to be there just after nine, just routine, check everything is tickety-boo."

She sat at her desk, opening her diary for the day, "And you're sure you don't need me to come with you?"

"Course not. I can manage. And besides, you're incredibly busy. In fact, I thought I might cook tonight."

Her eyes widened and she smiled at him, "Oh?"

"I can, you know."

"Whatever have I done to deserve that?" She said knowingly.

He blushed furiously yet held her gaze; they were both becoming braver, both that little bit more secure in their sexuality, their attraction, their enjoyment.

"Eat your porridge," she said jovially.

* * *

He counted the trees on the walk down the main drive. He could still remember his first walk through the watchful eyes of those giant old men, a young string of a lad craning his neck up to them. Today they were laden with snow, bowing slightly as he passed. The watchmen of the house. Many an evening had he walked beneath them returning to the cottage with Elsie's arm around his. They were simple moments, but they were all the more meaningful for it.

"Seem to be doing well now," Dr. Clarkson said. "Temperature's back to normal, no sign of sickness?"

"No, I've been feeling much, much better."

"You've been lucky, a man your age."

"I wasn't in the water long, not like Tommy."

Clarkson smiled as he scribbled on his notes, "You met the boy then?"

"I did. In fact, if he's still here I thought I might drop in, pay him a visit."

The Doctor looked over his glasses at him, "I think he would enjoy that. Pretty miserable for a child, hospital over Christmas. For all of them." He signed off his notes, "Don't go overdoing it. I know you have this fundraising thing on Christmas Eve, but try to rest."

"My wife will make sure of that." He rose, buttoning his jacket.

"How is Mrs. Carson?"

"Well, busy of course but – you know how this time of year is."

"I do indeed. Well, I shall see you Christmas Eve."

"Thank you, Doctor, for all your support."

* * *

Charles lingered in the reception area, he thought, seeing as he was already there, he might enquire about visiting the boys on the ward.

"Lady Grey," he said, noticing Isobel coming towards him, "Good morning."

"Oh Carson, no need for such formality. We've known each other an age now." She looked bright, happiness suited her. "How wonderful to see you, and how well you look considering. Quite the hero in the village."

"It's all been blown out of proportion really," he blustered.

"I'm sure it wasn't. What brings you here?"

"Dr. Clarkson wanted to check I was recuperating. And yourself?"

"Trees, Christmas trees more to the point." She gestured as she spoke, clearly invested in the topic at hand. "It seems ridiculous to me that we don't have a tree on every children's ward."

"They don't?"

"Just this one in reception. Some of these poor children will be here for months, they should still be able to engage in the magic of Christmas, don't you think?"

"I do indeed."

"Now I'm patron here I've taken it upon myself to make some changes. So, this morning two trees were delivered. Now we just have to decorate them."

Charles thought of his day ahead: some last preparations for the party, a few presents to wrap at home before Elsie got in, the fish he wanted to prepare for their supper. He could surely fit in some time here at the hospital.

"Might I be of assistance?"

"You would like to help?"

"If that's agreeable. I met some of the boys on the ward when I visited the other night, read to them, as it happens. I should like to help if it won't be a hindrance."

She touched his arm, "You never could be, I would be extremely grateful for your help."

They started towards the left wing of the hospital. "How exactly did you end up reading to the children, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Of course not. It was purely accidental, I came to visit the boy who fell in the lake. Tommy. And he can't read very well, so I thought I might entertain him awhile. The other boys seemed to enjoy it too."

"It's a travesty that we still aren't educating children when they're in hospital, or that we still have children in our country who can't read."

"My grandfather taught me mostly."

"And it's a good job he did, one cannot get very far these days without the ability to read. Ah, here we are. Shall you take the boys' ward, I'll go into the girls'?"

"More than happy to."

* * *

"What it's like then, being a butler?" Tommy asked as he watched the other boys hang baubles on the tree.

"Much like most professions I suppose, you have to work hard to get there and then work harder to stay there." He could see the four-year-old hadn't understood a word and decided to go for a different tact. "You have to stand tall, a straight back, be polite, hold a tray without dropping anything."

The boy smiled as Charles held out his arm and balanced a book on his hand, "Now, try to add things to it."

Tommy shifted in the bed, reaching for a pencil to rest on the book, then a teddy bear and finally he risked his glass of water from the bedside table.

Charles never wobbled.

"That's like magic," Tommy said.

Charles moved the water and put the book down, "Practice, your arm will get strong. And keep reading, have you tried?"

"A bit, I looked at the book you read us again."

Charles nodded and looked back to the tree, "Almost done, we just need the star. You want to try?"

Tommy pouted, "I'll never reach and Doctor says I'm too weak to get out of bed."

"I think we can manage thirty seconds."

Charles held the boy in his arms, lifting him up out of the bed to reach the top of the tree where he excitedly placed the star.

"There we go, looks wonderful."

"I hope Father Christmas leaves presents," Tommy said.

"I'm sure he will." He tucked the boy back into bed. "I suppose I best be going soon."

"Are you going to be a butler?"

"No, I have other jobs to do today."

"Will you read to us again, before you go?"

"I suppose I could, yes. If everyone wants that."

There was a chorus of 'yes' as the boys scrambled back into their beds and prepared to listen to another story.

* * *

The lounge was dim, lit only by the orange of the fire in the hearth and the tree lights in the corner.

On the sofa, Charles sat with his legs propped up on the footstool, Elsie cuddled against him, her head in his lap. She was exhausted, bless her, and almost asleep. He wondered about carrying her to bed, had suggested she go up twice but she was adamant she wanted some time together.

He told her of his day, of meeting Isobel, of the joyful few hours he'd spent in the company of the youngsters.

"Feels wonderful to do something simply for the joy it brings others," she commented and he gazed at her face, playing with her hair between his fingers. "Making the decision to do that."

"What has been… the best decision you've made?"

"Marrying you," she said without hesitation, her smile blissful, serene.

He felt his own grin stretching as she opened her eyes, watery blue looking up at him. "Oh."

"Oh…" she imitated, eyebrows raised. "And yours?"

"Asking you to marry me, as terrified as I was."

"You were terrified?"

"More so than I have ever been. More so than my first job interview or the first day as Head Butler. Trembling inside."

She pressed her hand against his chest, "My darling. How silly, to be terrified of me."

"Terrified you'd say no, that you wouldn't feel the same way."

"Hardly likely." She turned a little, lying on her side and cuddling against him. "I'm so tired."

"Bedtime then, time to say goodnight."

"Yes." She breathed deeply, eyes closed again. "I think you're enjoying the hospital."

"I'll admit I am, nothing wrong with that."

"Nothing at all. And you're enjoying helping the village, people in it. I can see something's returned, your spark."

He pursed his lips, stroking the back of her neck and watching her face in restful repose, "What does that mean? Do you have a plan?"

"Whatever do you mean by that?" She smirked, looking up at him. "I'm merely stating a fact, and perhaps suggesting it not be something you overlook. Doing something that makes you happy."

"And you, will you be happy, continuing to work?"

"When January comes we'll discuss it, not now, I'm so tired my decision will be biased."

He nodded – he knew well enough to know Elsie Hughes knew her own mind.

She yawned and he bent to kiss her forehead, "Let's go."

"Mm…"

She reluctantly got up, stretching, putting on her slippers and making her way from the sofa to the foot of the stairs. She was only a few steps up when she teasingly asked, "Will you read to me, Mr. Carson? You do the voices so well."

"Oh be off with you," he laughed, following her to bed.


	21. Chapter 21

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **U – Under the Mistletoe**

 **December 21** **st,** **1926**

"It suits you," Beryl said, glancing up to the sky to try and guess as to what the afternoon weather might bring. "Being married."

Elsie blinked at the sunlight, shining off the snow. "Where's that come from?"

"An observation. You're what, over eighteen months in now?"

"Did you think we wouldn't be?"

"Goodness no. When either of you makes a decision you stick to it, so both of you together it would be like trying to separate magnets."

Elsie laughed at that image: a flash of memory of being in their bed, his body above hers; strength, fluidity, intimacy.

"We wouldn't have entered into it if we weren't absolute."

"We all know that," Beryl breathed deeply. "And, it suits you, both of you. Marriage. It's settled you. It's softened him." She laughed, "Of course he was always soft, really. You know what I mean, you always had him wrapped around your finger."

"So you say."

Their baskets clashed against each other as they walked.

"You know it to be true."

Elsie smiled at the ground, at the footprints in the snow. "I would never admit it," she said softly, "sometimes I'd catch him looking at me. I ignored it, pretended it wasn't happening. And then I started looking back and he'd snatch the glance back, turn away from it. For years and years we played that game."

"And now you're finally together?" Beryl said softly.

"Yes." She swallowed, looking ahead to the house they walked towards. "And you're right, marriage does suit me. Us. Both of us." She smiled broadly, feeling giddy, for it was almost Christmas and there was snow on the ground and love in the air and she was alive. "I feel very, very happy."

Beryl shifted her basket from one hand to the other, gently holding Elsie's arm, "Oh, what I wouldn't give for that."

"You and Mr. Mason, though, you're…"

"We're…." she shrugged, "Treading gently I suppose. Slowly. Maybe it will never be more than friendship."

"Would that be enough?"

"Perhaps. Would it have been enough for you?"

"I suppose so, it could have been." She reflected on that "But then I would never have known what I know now, and that would be such a waste."

* * *

"It's very kind of you to make the donation," Charles said, reaching to shake Dr. Clarkson's hand. "I do appreciate it. Having your support, a man with such presence in the village."

Clarkson's eyes widened, "Nothing compared to you. And you've been such a help in the hospital, the boys have really enjoyed your company. Do you realise that?"

Charles frowned, "Not particularly. I've only read to them a couple of times."

"For most it's the most attention they've had – a supportive male figure, don't underestimate the importance of it."

"Good morning, gentlemen," Isobel said, carrying a box into the pub. "I believe this is where we're bringing donations."

"Good morning, Lady Grey," Clarkson said, tipping his hat.

"This is very generous of you," Charles said. "I didn't expect for you to…"

"Of course I'd help, you were wonderful yesterday. And this is a worthy course, I'm still part of the village, Carson." She said, "So, shall I take these somewhere?"

"Everything is being stored in the back room, your Ladyship. Shall I show you?"

"I can find my way," she smiled and headed further inside the pub.

Charles caught the look on Clarkson's face as he watched her go, something he recognised in himself, a wistful kind of longing. Too long suppressed, too easily let go.

The Doctor was embarrassed when he turned his attention back to Carson, rubbing the whiskers on his chin. "I best be… What time are things beginning on Christmas Eve?"

"Early afternoon. Around four, four thirty, didn't want to be too late with it being children."

"Understandable," Clarkson said, still distracted. He shook his head, reading the look on Charles' face. "Embarrassing," he said.

"Not at all."

"We were close once, friends. Different since she er, well, you know."

"I believe I do."

"You were wise, Mr. Carson, very, very wise."

Charles thought on those words long into the day.

* * *

 _A lifetime ago. He was thirty-nine. He felt old at the time, it's all down to perspective he supposes. And she arrived. Summer in winter._

 _Two seasons later, he remembers that night. Christmas Day and everyone was giddy, acting outside of their usual behaviours. It unnerved him. He liked things in neat boxes, he liked people to behave correctly, and when he couldn't control it that was what bothered him. And he felt he had little control at Christmas._

 _It was late before he turned off the lights downstairs. He liked it this way, the early hours of Boxing Day and the house was settled and silent. He would move through the rooms, checking things over, breathing in the dust and memories – it felt like his, as if he was one with it._

 _It startled him in the hall, when he saw a figure move towards the kitchen. Like an angel, so light of foot, long hair tied back into a tight plait swinging in the shadows as she moved. He held onto his breath, just in case it disturbed, as if his air could slice the moment in two._

 _He'll never know why he didn't do more. The mistletoe there, hanging by the foot of the stairs – a silly Christmas Day joke from the hall boys that he'd let pass._

 _She had come back carrying a glass of water, paused beneath the mistletoe, as if she sensed someone was there. He had hung in the shadows, a lonely man falling in love and too proud, or too distracted, or too disengaged to admit that was happening._

 _He let the moment go._

 _Let her return upstairs to her room without saying a word._

 _The mistletoe swinging from the ceiling._

 _When the hall boys came down the following morning it was gone._

* * *

There was no excusing her behaviour. If anybody had asked, which they wouldn't but still. This close to Christmas and the Housekeeper signs off early and disappears home. She had no excuse, she had no reason for it, or no real explanation as to why she suddenly made the decision. But there she was, halfway home, trudging through the snow with the milky afternoon light for company.

When she got close to the cottage she could see the light in the kitchen window, and her heart skipped, stomach jumped. He was home.

Sitting in his chair by the fire, reading the book she'd recommended, it was like finding a warm hug on a frosty day.

"Hello?" He'd said, looking up and taking his glasses off as she came into the room. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You're not ill?"

"No," she smiled, "just wanted to come home early."

"It's not even six. What about dinner?"

"I'm sure they'll cope."

She went through to the kitchen filling the kettle and putting it on to boil.

"If it were me, I'd chide you."

"Yes, you would." She turned, staring at him through one room to another. "What's that?"

He looked up to the ceiling. "That? Oh, something I saw in the village. I thought it festive."

"Festive?" She raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips. "We were not festive enough?"

He closed his book, "I saw Dr. Clarkson today."

"Oh yes."

"He came to the Grantham Arms to leave supplies for the party, donations. You know, I think he's in love."

She filled the teapot, startled by his words, "Not like you to notice such things."

"I'm not a complete philistine."

"No… but still, you don't usually voice these things."

"I felt sorry for him," he got to his feet, the top of his head almost brushing the mistletoe. "Unrequited love is not a joyful thing."

She walked towards him, the oddest look on her face. "I believe Mrs. Patmore might be looking for love, but possibly not in it."

"That thought disturbs me."

She chuckles, shaking her head as she stood before him. "Some things don't change, no matter the impact of marriage."

"The impact of it?"

"On us…" She rested her hands on his chest, lifting her face up to his, eyes wide as she looked up to the mistletoe. "Very festive."

He pressed his lips gently to hers, his eyes instantly closing. She watched him, as she often did, through hooded eyes, noting how he sighed with contentment. How his fingers moved over her back, hands wide as he pressed her closer to him.

He pulled back, letting out a breath, kissing her cheek twice, then down towards her chin.

She let her hands wander, because this really was what she had come home for. She could admit that now. Something had happened. Maybe it was the Christmas atmosphere, the fear, the shock of perhaps losing him after his heroics, or the sheer joy that came from the two of them freeing their inhibitions a little more every time.

When he kissed her lips again, the pressure increasing, she moaned and her eyes momentarily closed. Soft and tender, one light kiss, one heavy, the scent of him, the heat of him. This real, whole man in her arms. She'd never dreamed it would happen. Convinced she'd spend her years alone never knowing.

One hand slid to his hip, and she pressed the tips of her fingers into him. She noted every detail, every texture beneath her fingertips, every sound he made, every tiny thrill that travelled through her.

She was braver now, more assured in what she needed and wanted and liked. She tilted her head back, gave him the hint and direction until his kisses travelled, light as a feather down the sensitive line of her neck. Balancing her in his arms as she leant back, the tightness of her corset holding her back. She sniggered suddenly and he looked up at her alarmed.

She pressed two fingers to his mouth, "Just remembering the suspenders," she said, and his lips opened slightly as he remembered too. Then he kissed her fingers, kept his eyes fixed on hers as he did it. That was a first. Her hand yes, the back of her hand, but not her fingers. And then down to her palm, kissing the centre of her palm.

Elsie made an odd sound from somewhere deep in her throat.

He glanced cautiously to her face; her expression made him wish they weren't fully dressed in the middle of their lounge in daylight.

He tried it again, kissing her palm, breathing in the scent of her skin. And then, for some unfathomable reason, he parted his lips and his tongue darted out and touched the sensitive spot in the middle of her hand.

Charles felt her chest move against his, watched as she licked her lips.

For a second he remembered the girl in the dark hall, the girl he wished he'd kissed.

"Elsie," he whispered, and then he pressed his lips to hers again, hungrily holding her against him, every inch of him touching every inch of her.

"I love you," he mumbled and she hummed in response.

He wasn't sure which one of them tried it first, nor why they hadn't tried it before, but somehow the move he'd tried on her hand was happening with their mouths and it was the most wondrous explosion of pleasure. His tongue finding hers, the heat of her mouth, the soft wet gloriousness of it as they really kissed. This was finding passion.

When she pulled back she was breathless, eyes glistening as she stared at him.

"My…" she whispered. "My, my, my… so, that's what mistletoe does."

The peace of the afternoon settled around them.

She lifted her hands to his shoulders, pressing heavily against him.

"Does what happens under the mistletoe, stay under the mistletoe?"

"Oh, I hope not." He smiled, leaning in to try it again.


	22. Chapter 22

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **V – Velvet**

 **December 22** **nd,** **1926**

Like most men, Charles was not a particularly good shopper. It wasn't that he lacked the desire to be, indeed he wanted to purchase things Elsie would love. Over the years he had mainly bought her books, or bookmarks, or little trinkets for her office. He had never truly been inspired.

Now they were married his gifts could have a more intimate touch. A brooch for her coat. A scarf and gloves. And the chair. She would adore them all, he was sure.

With only a couple of days left, he had taken the early morning bus into town, it was busy and he loathed that but there were a few things he still needed. Elsie had asked him to pick up a few orders too, gifts for others he assumed, she handled all those things – Mrs. Patmore, Daisy, Anna and John – and he was so very glad for she had a much better eye for things than he did.

He was passing a store front when he noted the blanket. Deep red velvet. It made him stop and he backed up, getting closer to the glass. The blanket was edged with gold, embroidered, beautifully so. And beside it a red and gold striped cushion. He immediately wanted them, though this was coloured with the guilty memory of asking Anna to make two red cushions for the chair. He debated what to do, fussed over it as he took tea in Betty's and purchased a few sweet treats for Elsie: chocolate mice for her stocking, sugared almonds and the like.

In the end, both the velvet blanket and cushion accompanied him on the bus ride back to the village. One could never have too many cushions, after all.

* * *

Late in the afternoon he made his way to the house, lingering in the staff dining room for a while, listening to the goings on. He sat at the head of the table, recalling the sound of William on the piano, every morning breakfast with Elsie at his side. Laughter. He remembered that.

"Hello," that voice. "Were you looking for someone?" she teased, an armful of napkins.

"I have my monthly appointment."

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten." She laid the napkins on the table, "Would you like some tea before you go up?"

"No, I'm fine." He briefly rested his hand on her arm, "Came for some morale support."

"You're nervous?" Her body blocked the door, blocked the way he looked up to her face from view of others.

"No. We just need to discuss the Father Christmas business. And I haven't seen him since before the accident."

"Surely that won't affect things." She brushed his shoulder, "You look good, sitting there again."

"You know what I was thinking? That I don't miss it. Does that surprise you?"

She shook her head, "No. I know you. I watch you."

"I surprised me, never thought I'd get used to it."

"Life changes, you told me that once. It's changed both of us, more so this past year, for the better. I'm happy you're settling, happy that you're happy."

He squeezed her hand on the table, reflecting on how her skin always felt like velvet against his. How he'd like to wrap himself up in her.

"Mr. Carson," Daisy exclaimed.

He let go of her hand, adopted his Carson persona and got to his feet.

"Nice to see you, Daisy."

"I read about you," she started and Elsie smiled at him, "Were you afraid?" Daisy babbled. Elsie collected the napkins and left him to it.

"Not particularly Daisy, but then I didn't consider my actions until after the event."

"It's exciting though isn't it, dead exciting…"

Charles took his seat again, preparing for the girl's silly questions.

* * *

There was something still a little odd about sitting in Lord Grantham's office, even though these monthly meetings had been going on for almost a year now. He wasn't there to report on the running of the household, not really, he was there to give a run down on aspects of it – like the wine cellar, or how he thought Barrow was performing, although that too had stopped six or seven months in.

"Quite the accomplishment," Robert said. "And you're looking well, fit as a fiddle."

Carson sipped his tea, returning it to its saucer. "I am feeling much better, my Lord."

"Mrs. Hughes looking after you, no doubt."

"She is. There have been other acquaintances popping over too, surprising really, how the villagers have been kind."

"You're rather respected old chap, you must know that."

"I do not dwell on such things, it does no good."

"A wise choice." Robert smiled knowingly. "Lady Grantham informs me you have a request."

Charles felt his chest tighten a little, he wasn't used to such conversations, he would never dream of making demands of his Lordship and now he felt quite foolish for even considering it.

"The thing is, Carson, I am more than happy to make an appearance at the event – it's a very worthy cause."

He dropped his head, staring at the carpet.

"Yet as for playing Father Christmas, the thing is –,"

"You don't have to explain, my Lord."

"– I believe they would much rather have you. You're the bigger draw, see."

He opened his mouth to speak, his mind suddenly blank as he stared at Robert.

"You really are, my good man. I believe the children would love it. If you're up to it, of course." He took a sip of his tea. "But by all means I'm happy to donate and pop by for an hour; Lady Grantham suggested we might purchase gifts for the children, for Father Christmas to distribute."

"That's a very generous offer, very generous. Thank you."

"You're more than welcome." He finished his tea and got to his feet, signalling the end of the meeting. "We always knew how valuable you were, Carson, it's about time the rest of them did too."

"I appreciate that. Thank you."

* * *

"You're getting him an apron?" Beryl laughed. "That's hilarious."

"You think he'll appreciate the humour and not take offence?"

"I suppose it depends."

"On what?"

"On what he gets you, or on how happy he is that morning."

Elsie's eyes widened in shock but Beryl wasn't looking at her and she realised she'd misunderstood the comment.

"If you serve him bacon it won't matter what's in the gift."

Elsie laughed self-consciously, "Yes, of course, I hadn't thought of that." She thought of kissing him beneath the mistletoe again; it still did something strange to the depths of her belly. "How many of those have you made today?"

"Hundred or more I reckon. And do tell your Mr. Carson that his mince pies and sausage rolls will be ready."

" _My_ Mr. Carson," she smiled, leaning against the counter across from Beryl. "Thank you so much for doing this, he's been working so hard on it, it's been good to see, actually."

"I can appreciate that."

"Oh?"

"None of us are blind, and even if we were it would take somebody of supreme stupidity not to realise that leaving a lifetime's job would be difficult."

Elsie bit down on her bottom lip, rubbing it hard against her teeth. "I was thinking I might…" She stopped herself and Beryl paused what she was doing and looked up sharply. Elsie shrugged, "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe it's time."

"Well… that's a turn up. Not completely unexpected I suppose, when you think on it." She scattered flour onto the work surface, "Still, things won't be the same."

"I suppose not," she suddenly felt nervous and glanced around the kitchen with a sense of loss. "Nothing's been decided," she said, snapping her heels. "I best get on."

* * *

"So, guess what I brought you." Elsie said, putting her basket on the dining table that evening.

"Treacle pudding?"

"Ha, no, not yet." She took out a round package, wrapped in brown paper, and heard him gasp.

"Pork pie?"

"Specially for you, Mrs. Patmore said." She handed it across to him, "And she also said your food for the party will be ready."

"Oh thank her very much, very _very_ much. It's shaping up to be quite the event. Shall we have a slice of this now?"

"Why not?" She slipped her coat off, hanging it over the back of a dining chair. "What are you doing, it smells divine?"

"Mulled wine," he said proudly, "a gift from Jack and you know," he waved his wooden spoon at her. "If there's one thing I know, it's wine."

"Oh I know," she took plates from the cupboard, sliced the pork pie and put it out. "How did things go with his Lordship?"

He paused stirring the wine, "It was fine. He was happy to help."

"As Father Christmas?" She gasped, "Well, I never."

"No, no. Not in that way. Presents. Things like that." He returned to stirring the wine, breathing in the rich, delicious scents of it. "Rather ridiculous actually."

"What was? Onion chutney with this?"

"Please."

He left the wine, turned around to watch her as she set the table, now sitting beside him at one end without even asking. It was nicer that way. More intimate. She put out their plates, a bowl of chutney, cutlery, two glasses of water.

"Shall I light the candles?" He said, admiring how the light from the tree caught in her hair. "Might be nice."

"Romantic for pork pie."

He gave her a look – dark eyes, soft face and she smiled. "Pour the wine, I'll light them. And tell me, what was ridiculous?"

"He thinks I should play Father Christmas," he said. "As I said, silly."

She pursed her lips but didn't say anything, taking her seat and putting her napkin in her lap.

"Thank you," she said as he carried across two glasses of mulled wine. "This smells wonderful. And thank you also, I forget to say this, for waiting for me, to eat."

"It isn't an issue."

"No, but now you're outside of the regime you could eat at a more reasonable hour."

"Perhaps, but then I wouldn't eat with you." He rested his hand on hers on the table. "Highlight of my day." He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. "Velvet."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. An old man's foolishness. Tell me honestly, what do you think about me dressing up?"

She squeezed his hand, "I think the children would love it, and I think you have the physique."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"Wears velvet, doesn't he? Father Christmas?"

Charles' eyebrows rose, "Not sure. Depends on the quality of the suit one would suggest."

She sipped her wine, closing her eyes as she savoured the warm richness pooling on her tongue, "I like the feel of velvet against my skin."

His throat suddenly went dry and he coughed, "Mrs. Hughes!" he spluttered, reaching for his water.

She laughed, "Eat your pork pie."

He did as she said, letting go of her hand. "Today Jack told me a joke. I've remembered it for you."

Her face registered shock, "You're going to tell me a joke?"

"Yes."

"You. Charles Carson. Are going to tell me a joke?"

"It's a Christmas one."

She smiled, "Go on then, entertain me."

"What did the Christmas card envelope say to the stamp?"

"No idea."

"Stick with me, we're going places."

It took her a second, his deadpan delivery adding to the amusement, but then she laughed heartily and he joined in. Content and happy in their little cottage.


	23. Chapter 23

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **W – Weather**

 **December 23** **rd,** **1926**

They left that morning together, the weather had been brutal in the night – plunging temperatures added to already treacherous walkways, and, as a result, her husband had offered to escort her into work.

"Like I always say, it's good to have more than one string to your bow." Elsie said as she stood and waited for Charles to lock the cottage door.

"And playing Father Christmas is a skill?"

"Absolutely it is," she paused, reaching for Charles' arm and holding tight as they navigated the icy path. "And besides, it's far too late now to go searching for somebody else. I think you should do it. Nobody has to know it's you, though of course they will."

"How, if we don't tell them?"

"Your voice, my dear, it will be a giveaway."

He grumbled beneath his breath, and she slid her hand into his, wrapping her fingers around his.

"You can do anything," she said in her no-nonsense tone. "Now, I have a lot to do today."

"As do I," he said, the snow settling on his hat. "I will not be in your way."

"I didn't mean that. All I meant was you have a lot to do too, and I can't spare time to help. But if –,"

"I'll be fine."

"I was going to say, but if you need somebody I can spare someone to assist you, it's a good cause after all. And I spoke with her Ladyship, I'm sure she won't mind."

He shook his head, "I wish you hadn't. I don't wish them to see me as a burden."

"As if they could." She sneaked a look at him, a half smile on her face. "You're not worried, are you?"

"Why in heaven's name would I be?"

She smirked, "No reason." She swung his hand a little, glancing to the sky. "I bet this clears."

"Mm, anymore and there'll be no party tomorrow. Even the weather is against me."

She rolled her eyes, "Mr. doom and gloom. Why don't you sit with us for breakfast? After you've discussed delivery times with Mrs. Patmore."

"I couldn't possibly."

"Of course you could, it's Christmas. And you should take your rightful spot."

"Elsie, that would not be fair on Barrow. No, no, I shall leave as soon as I have what I need."

"We'll see."

* * *

Not long after he sat beside her at the breakfast table, watching as she poured him tea and remembering the days of long ago where she'd done this, when his primary focus would have been his staff and not her. His mind would have been drilling through his jobs for the day. He would have been annoyed by the jovial chatter at breakfast, the high festive spirits. Back then he wouldn't have known what it meant to say her name, whisper it, as she lay beside him in their bed, comfortable and safe. Or how it felt to have her bring him a cup of tea as he sat in his chair by the fire. To read to her. To hold her and love her. Endlessly.

Life had always been good to him, the way he figured anyhow, but he never really knew he was alive until they'd married.

"Mr. Carson," Barrow said, entering the room and moving to take his seat at the head of the table. He stopped himself though, paused with his hand on the back of the chair and drew it out. "Your seat, I believe."

"Oh really, Mr. Barrow, there is no need."

"You are the elder statesman here, I insist."

Elsie passed a cup of tea across to Thomas, grateful when he took the chair on the end across from hers. It took a second or two but eventually Charles rose and moved back to his former position, his hands flat upon the surface of the table as if taking in the very texture of the wood.

"Now then…" he started, looking up.

"Good to have you back, Mr. Carson," Bates said and there were a few mumbles of response before Elsie sat down.

"Not too much jam on your porridge," she warned as they were served, her voice barely a whisper.

He cast her a half-smile, his eyes glowing. She pursed her lips, shared a brief second with him, an intimacy in full view, before she turned her attention to the table.

"How did little John sleep, Anna, any better?"

"Much, Mrs. Hughes. And we're quite looking forward to bringing him to see Father Christmas this year," she said knowingly. "I have a feeling he will be quite comfortable."

"Which reminds me," she turned her attention back to him, "do you have time to come back later, we need to look at something, this afternoon?"

"I can. If that's your wish."

"It is. Eat up, busy day ahead."

* * *

Charles would never presume anything, not when it came to the family. Outside of his role he was never entirely sure how to be around them; he missed them, which he knew was fairly ridiculous, but they'd been his family for so very long that not being involved in their day-to-day lives was odd. He kept in touch through Elsie most of the time, caught hold of news from her, and that helped somewhat.

He knew Lady Mary was happy, and in some ways, that was all he needed to know; that she was pregnant again, which was something he chose not to discuss. In one of their moments, tucked up together in warmth and silence, Elsie had whispered that he saw her as being the closest thing he'd ever get to a daughter. He understood what she meant, though of course he would never make the claim himself, he wouldn't never even dare to think it, she being a class above.

It was whilst returning to the estate late that afternoon that he saw her again. That tall willowy figure, the dark cap of hair, the pale, pale skin. He had been walking the long path to the house, the frost of the morning long since melted away, and he heard the noise of Master George as he clambered out of the car and Mary was standing just inside the door, welcoming her son.

It made him smile and he felt happy, joyful to see her.

She noticed him, raised an arm and he awkwardly waved back and altered his course, heading for the main entrance instead.

"Mr. Carson," her voice was almost jovial, "it's so good to see you." she held his arm, "I've heard all about your escapades, come inside, do."

"I wouldn't presume to use this entrance, my Lady, I was going to the servants' entrance."

"Nonsense, come in." She led him inside, "Father spoke of what a hero you have become. Of course, I wasn't surprised."

He found himself smiling, "I was."

She laughed, "Oh dear, Carson." She turned to face him, "It's so very good to see you again. I do wish you'd visit more often."

"I wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes, if I were Barrow I wouldn't appreciate it."

"Well, it's your role. Don't forget that." She patted his arm and he thought how settled she looked, big with child, her eyes soft.

"Thank you, milady, it's lovely to see you too. And to hear how well you're doing."

"Thanks in part to you, your recommendations and the household is running smoothly. Stevenson isn't you, but he is good."

"A respected butler, milady."

"I appreciate you bringing him to our attention. I'm told there is an event tomorrow, a visit from Father Christmas."

He felt his cheeks redden, "There is…. Only a small event, fundraising."

"It sounds quite lovely, I think George would enjoy it."

"So, we might see you there?"

"I believe so, we might drop by at the start if there's room for us."

"That would be most wonderful, and of course, yes, I shall make sure there is.

"Then we shall see you then, take care, Carson."

* * *

There's a smile on his face that surprises her when he comes down the stairs and meets her at the bottom.

"What's that look for?" She asks, she usually only witnesses such a look of complete wonder and excitement when they've shared their love physically.

"Nothing. Just…" he gives a little shrug and reaches to her upper arms, moving to bring her body to his and kiss her but she raises her eyebrows and he remembers where they are and stops himself.

"I take it everything went well, decorations up?"

"It all looks wonderful, I think you'll be pleased."

"As long as you are, that's all that matters. Would you like tea first or to go straight up?"

"Where are we going?"

"Storage. I have something to show you."

"Tea after then, I think, I'll need it."

Apart from the fact he sometimes dreams of them, he'd almost forgotten the endless stairs. In his dreams, he was always going somewhere and never getting there, and climbing the stairs was easy though repetitive. Now, at his age and after such an illness, climbing them was like tackling Everest without oxygen.

"Shall we pause?" Elsie asked, slowing to accommodate him. "We can have a moment."

He shook his hand at her, "No, no…" and she understood he meant no because if some young maid came down they'd see him struggling.

So, they pressed on, only she'd deliberately slowed the pace.

Two floors up there was a window porch and she stopped there, giving him a few seconds to catch up with her. She sat back on the ledge, the tiniest view of the east gardens visible, the setting sun and everything bathed in orangey light.

"You're alright?" She asked as he stopped beside her, one hand pressing against the wall. "Silly of me, I never thought, I should've had it brought down to my room."

"It's fine, good for me." He puffed out his chest, drawing in a full breath and casting his eyes over the view. "Beautiful spot. How have I missed this?"

"It's not a route you would usually take, I only do it to get to the attic and the storage rooms."

"It's been here all this time."

She reached to push back a lock of his hair that had fallen down in his exertions, "Some things have always been here, just waiting to be found."

He cast her a look, deep dark eyes raking over her soul, but he did not touch her, merely enjoyed the moment – the way the light caught in her hair.

"I told you the sun would come out," she said.

"Yes. And it did."

"Brighter weather, no worries about your big day." She looked at him again, "I'm very proud of you, you know."

He moved a little closer to where she sat, pressing a hand to the top of her knee, "I love you so very much, Mrs. Carson."

She smiled, lips pursed, eyes shining, "And I you. Mr. Carson."

The rest of the way up seemed a little easier and he kept close behind her. It was colder up there, and the air stiller, sharper, because of it.

She unlocked the attic room, and he stood for a moment looking around at the many piles of boxes, old toys, books.

"Watch your step," she said, "some of the floorboards can be wobbly."

He followed her inside, eyes adjusting to the dusty light. "I didn't realise it was quite this full."

"I've been telling her ladyship for years we ought to sort some of it. However, I am quite glad I remembered this particular item."

"Oh?" He stood in the middle of the room, an imposing figure, watching as she bent to dig something out of an old trunk. "Elsie…" he said lowly, his mind racing as her bottom stuck up in the air.

"Mm, just a second."

"Whatever are you searching for?"

"Found it," she pulled out a large red coat and carried it across. "See what quality this is, real fur."

"What in heaven's name… is this…?"

"Father Christmas, you need to look the part."

He pulled a face, "I really can't."

"Of course you can, you need to try it." She shook it out. "I'll have the girls clean it of course."

"It isn't mine."

"Oh goodness, I checked with her ladyship, don't fuss." She held the coat out, "Come on, arms up."

"I will look a fool."

"Stop your flannelling." She draped the coat over his shoulders, guiding his arms into place and then standing back. "Now then… my, quite impressive."

"You think it fits?"

"I think it looks marvellous," she stepped closer again, brushing her hands down the front of the coat. "Very impressive."

Charles mumbled and dug around in the pockets, "What's this then?" He pulled out and unrolled the hat. "I can't wear this."

"You need a beard too," she said, taking it from him and shaking it out.

"Where will I get a beard from?"

"I'll think on it, don't worry, we'll have it sorted by tomorrow afternoon."

"Foolish idea."

"Wonderful idea," she pecked his cheek before putting the hat on her head. "What do you think?"

"Very festive." His hands circled her waist, pulling her to him and leaning in to kiss her.

"Now, now, Santa… is this quite appropriate?"

"There's a Mrs. Claus, isn't there?"


	24. Chapter 24

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **X – Xmas Eve**

 **December 24** **th,** **1926**

She wakes extra early on Christmas Eve, it's a habit from childhood, one of the few things she brought with her into adulthood. She likes to be up and around whilst everyone is still sleeping. At the house she would dress silently, fluidly, like a ghost as she stole down the halls without disturbing a soul. She liked to open the drapes, enjoy the view on her own, the white over the lawns, the stillness of the morning. She's never been overly religious but she regards herself as Christian, Church of England (she's lived there long enough), and there's a time to be reverent at Christmas. So she prays. Just for a moment.

Waking in her own home, in their cottage, changes the shape of things. For one, there is no where she'd rather be than right there in their bed. For another, it is warm, soft, comfortable. And her husband is sleeping beside her, on his back, the sheets drawn across his broad chest, the buttons on his pyjama top stretching to accommodate his movement in the night.

She prays differently now, thankful for this. She can't say she fell in love, it isn't that simple, nor that she found it. It just happened. It just evolved. She can't even pinpoint when she knew, just that it was there and it grew until she couldn't deny it no longer, it was as natural as the building of the ocean or the coming of rain. That it continues to grow, that is the wonder, that she hadn't expected. She is so consumed with feelings for him now there is no way to tell where things start and end. She is his, completely, and, in turn, he is hers. She knows she has his heart and there's something religious in that.

When she senses he is starting to wake she scoots closer, one hand sliding over his belly beneath the sheets, the other reaching to his hair, fingers threading through the silver strands – thick before he styles it, soft, like feathers against her fingertips. She presses a kiss to his forehead, watches his eyes flutter, and then another to his nose, then his cheeks, all the time watching his reaction.

It is a big day for him, a potentially nerve-wracking day, and she has the slightest hint of a feeling that she could give him something to see him confident through the day. Something only a wife can give.

"Darling…" she whispers by his ear, the hand on his belly moving lowers, fingers toying with the band on his pyjama bottoms. "Charlie…" she says, and his breathing has deepened, though he's very much awake now.

She kisses the side of his mouth, smiling when he twists his head, his mouth meeting hers. She sinks down into the kiss, a hand on his chest, her body pressing against his and his mouth opens, a warm welcome embrace. When he groans her eyes flutter closed, though she usually has them open when they kiss, at times the feeling takes over – this is one of those times.

She can feel his arm moving, his hand sliding over her back, fingers curling into the material.

Oddly, she thinks of the new pyjamas she's bought him for Christmas, the thick blue dressing gown to replace the threadbare one he's worn for far too long. Matching slippers.

She gasps when his other hand closes around her breast, his thumb pressing her nightgown against her nipple. He is braver with this now, twenty-months in, he knows what he likes – and he's getting to learn what she likes though he's not always been super-quick on the uptake on personal matters. But he listens to her, notices how her breathing changes when he kisses her neck, he knows that spot now where she shudders when he touches her.

"Elsie," he whispers and she looks down at him, brushing his hair back as he blearily looks back at her, confused and half-asleep.

"Good morning," she kisses him again, "you slept deeply, eventually."

He stretched, his eyes closing again; he had worried in the early part of the night, gone over everything for the following day, made mental lists and for a long time lay there listening to Elsie sleep.

Her fingers work their way into his pyjama top, fiddling with the top two buttons until they're open and she can stroke his chest a little more freely. She wonders if she's being too forward, or if he appreciates the attention; the early-morning smile playing across his face seems to confirm the latter, so she forgoes any more conversation and settles her body on his chest, kissing him deeply.

Charles' hands moved quickly to her hips, these hips he's watched for a lifetime, following her up many a staircase, discreetly eyeing how the dress swung as she walked. He used to chastise himself over it, forced himself not to pay attention, but then it became obvious he couldn't steal his mind away from it, she was far too attractive, far too alluring. And what harm could it do? If it were just in his head?

He half lifts her on top of him, the position from the fireside, something they haven't repeated since. His fingers scrunch up her nightgown until its almost at her waist.

It is early morning, the sun not yet risen but the light is fair, milky, and she knows he can see more than he can in the deepest dark of night. He is flat on his back, the palms on his hands against the bare skin of her hips now, and his fingers stroking in small circles as he looks up at her.

She is strong, and beautiful, and fragile.

Shyly she looks down at him, one hand daring to reach to the top of his pyjama bottoms, untying the string with a shaky hand, pushing the material down just enough. She wants to make love to him, is not fearful of it now – how far they've come, she enjoys making love to him, with him.

Leaning forward he catches her face in one hand before their lips meet again, a deep searing kiss. And his free hand is fiddling with her nightgown, wanting to touch her skin, see her breasts.

Their bodies come together in that position, and he groans so loudly into her mouth she thinks she's given him the world.

Again her hips roll and she sits back, hands on his chest as she moves, watching his face. His eyes never leave hers, she holds him securely. When she opens her mouth her breath exhales in pleasure, she never would have dreamt they could do this. Her head tilts back, neck stretching, and she can feel his pelvis pushing beneath her, feel him moving inside her, and his hands on her hips, still eager to touch her.

Enveloped in passion she pushes at the shoulder of her nightgown, lets one arm down, then the other, and it slips down and over her breasts as they move, the tantalising movement of lovemaking.

The look he gives her is nothing more than unadulterated love.

* * *

The hat itches, as does the beard, and he feels a fool in both.

He can just about make out his reflection in the window and stares at himself, knowing its him but not really connecting nevertheless. He tugs on the beard, raises his shoulders to see how the jacket fits when he moves. Elsie had altered it a little the previous night and, to her credit, it's perfect.

He turns, eyeing his profile; the beard makes him look older and he immediately dismisses the idea of ever growing one. For a second, he smiles, he's been whistling Christmas tunes all day, jostled by the wonderful start to it. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day and he had never been more excited about giving a gift.

"Mr. Carson," Molesley said, peeping his head around the door and then coming into the room. "Think we're about ready, Mrs. Hughes has got the children all seated on the carpet."

"Er right, well then, I suppose we best get on with it." He turned to look at Molesley, unable to resist champing out an order to his old footman despite his role as teacher to these young children. "And do make sure the presents are ready, you know their names too, it would help if I can refer to each one individually."

"Yes, Mr. Carson, of course. I'll stand right behind you."

He was sure he saw the hint of a smile on the man's face as he left the room, he was shaking his head as Elsie came in.

"Oh very impressive," she said, fussing over his coat.

"He was sniggering at me."

"He was doing nothing of the sort, now, are you quite ready?"

"I do not wish to be a laughing stock."

"Charles," she laid her hands on his chest. "Nobody in this village is held in higher regard at the moment. Especially by the people in this building, now," she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, "are you quite ready to bring joy and happiness to a group of children?"

He raised his eyebrows, "There's a statement I never thought I'd hear."

She couldn't help but chuckle, "No, me neither. After I thought you could disappear back here and change again, slip into the celebrations, and eat something, you've been a bag of nerves all day."

"You do fuss."

"I'm your wife, it's part of my job."

"Yes well," he rested his hands on her shoulders, "I was thinking of something."

"Go on."

"Tomorrow, whilst you're working, I thought I might pop to the hospital, if we have gifts left you see. I could keep the suit another day."

She smiled again, "You really are the most wonderful, kindest man I've ever known."

"No need to get sentimental about, Mrs. Hughes."

She laughed at that, the amusement in his eyes evident as he teased.

"Come on then, ho ho ho and all that."

"Your grotto awaits." She said.

* * *

"Mr. Carson, I never knew you had it in you," Beryl laughed, a glass of sherry sloshing in her hand. "Quite the entertainer. But then, that's your background isn't it, we often forget."

"I don't think we need to bring any of that up, Mrs. Patmore," Charles said gruffly.

"What stuff is this?" Mr. Mason asked, draining the last of his beer.

"Another career where –," Beryl started.

"Nothing of note," Charles said quickly. "And don't dwell on my role, I don't wish for the children to be any the wiser." He glanced around watching as groups of them sat playing pass the parcel or pin the tail on the donkey, only Jack had tried to draw a reindeer instead and it looked quite the sight _. Children don't mind these things_ , Elsie had pointed out. "You think it's going well?"

"I'd say so," Mr. Mason said broadly, "a right good night it's been, dancing and presents and the like. A good slice of pork pie and a pint of ale, what more could you need?"

The old Charles would have found the common focus of the man tasteless, but the new Charles, the one who was learning to appreciate the other human beings in his home village, was glad of his obvious enjoyment.

"Another sherry, Mrs. Patmore?" Mr. Mason asked, and Charles noted the slight twinkle in her eye as she shrugged.

"Why ever not, it's Christmas Eve."

"And you, Mr. Carson? A pint?"

Charles had never really been one for ale but his new friendship with Jack had introduced him to the local flavours, "That would be very nice," he found himself saying diplomatically.

He turned when there was a round of applause and realised Lord and Lady Grantham had risen from their seats by the fire and were approaching him.

"Very well done, Carson, splendid job," Robert said, shaking his hand.

"I must say Carson, only you could pull something off this quickly and with such style," Cora said sweetly. "And the grandchildren have loved it."

"I'm very glad." Charles eyed Lady Mary as she remained by the fire, George and little Sybbie playing with the other village children, running trains over the floor and lining up dolls along the rug. "And I thank you so much for coming, it really does raise the spirits."

"We just hope you've raised enough for the hospital," Robert said, "which reminds me, didn't you need a word, Cora?"

She took Carson's arm and led him to a quiet corner of the pub, away from prying ears.

"We were lucky to have him all these years," Robert observed to Beryl.

"They don't many like him your Lordship and that's a truer word as there is," she finished her sherry. "Now, I best be heading back myself, a busy day tomorrow."

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Patmore."

"And a Merry Christmas to you, my Lord, and all the family."

"I'll walk with you," Mason suggested, leaving his half-drunk beer on a table.

* * *

"Isn't it a beautiful evening," Elsie said, gripping Charles' arm and looking up to the clear night sky. "The stars look extra bright."

"It is, it'll be frosty tomorrow mind, a clear night."

"Don't ruin it. Shall you come to the house for breakfast before you go to the hospital?"

"I thought I might. And that we could save our presents for the evening, if that suits you."

"Of course. I might give you one in the morning, just because I can't wait."

He glanced over at her, "Not like you to be so excited over Christmas presents."

"I'm married now, things are different. It went well tonight, you should be proud. All those hampers for the poor."

"I know, I do feel proud I suppose, proud of what we can achieve together."

"We always were a formidable pair when we put our minds to it."

He laughed at that, lifting her hand to kiss it. "Very true, my love. I think her Ladyship would like part of the money to go to the hospital."

"Well, see what's left. But they do receive quite a few charitable donations."

"Mmm…"

"It's because of her role, never you mind, you have your plans."

"Yes but, there's other things to consider too now."

"Oh? Such as?"

He took a deep breath, "She asked me to become a board member at the hospital."


	25. Chapter 25

**A Chelsie Christmas**

 **Y – Yule**

 **December 25** **th,** **1926**

There were Christmas traditions they'd observed for years; breakfast, church, carols on the walk home, their turkey at lunch and a short rest before the family celebration. All of these would be observed, but there were new traditions Elsie wanted to create – time alone in the morning, breakfast at the cottage not with the other staff, then they would meet them at church. She wanted to leave as soon as the evening meal was over, head home so they could have a few hours together and open their presents.

Silly, really, to work their time together around the family's needs when being with him was the most important thing in her life.

When she came down Christmas morning, smiling and jubilant in her favoured work dress, Charles was fussing in the lounge; she stopped on the stairs and listened to him mumbling as he arranged things. The was what made her smile, to think of how happy he was, how much he'd been through in December and how far he'd come during their marriage.

"Ah, there you are…" he said, standing awkwardly, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown. "So I er… well, I thought we should at least open one present before we leave."

She chuckled when she spotted what he stood in front of, a beautiful green rocking chair, there were presents wrapped in gold paper on top and a bow tied around the back.

"I couldn't wrap this one," he said timidly.

Her hand was over her mouth, "Charlie…" she said softly, a smile on her face.

"So, you can sit by the fire, read, you once said how you'd like to."

"Oh darling," she went to him, drew him into a hug and kissed his cheek. "How beautiful it is."

"Hand painted," he said proudly, "and rescued from Mrs. Greenwood's. Otherwise it would have been firewood."

"What a lovely use for it instead, in our home." She ran her hand over the back of it. "Thank you, such a thoughtful gift. I can grow old sitting here by the fire."

"That's a rather quaint thought," he could picture it – her darning by the fire, a blanket over her shoulders, one over her knees. The golden glow upon her face. "Do you want to open the rest?" He asked softly.

"Let's save it for later," she said, straightening the collar on his dressing gown. "I thought we might have some time alone together then, to open our presents, have some privacy."

"That sounds wonderful," he kissed her forehead. "Better than my idea. I'll go dress."

"Breakfast will be here when you're done."

She turned back to the chair, unaware of him turning and pulling her back against him, kissing the side of her head, "Merry Christmas, my love."

* * *

It was rather odd walking on his own on Christmas Day, leaving Elsie back at the Abbey ready for an afternoon of hard work. It was the first in his memory where he hadn't been there to serve and that hit him rather broadly.

He imagined the day was crisper, clearer, brighter, whether that was the truth or not was debateable; part of him realised he was merely projecting the fact it was a special day, another part felt buoyed by the church service and saw God's hand wherever he walked.

The hospital was quiet after lunch, and he signed in, was taken to a private room to change and the presents they'd sent had been bundled into a large sack.

Feeling a bit of a fool he huffed and puffed in front of the mirror, wondering how he got himself into such a foolish position. He tried to do his hat the way Elsie had done it the night before but couldn't get it quite the same.

"Mr. Carson," the matron said, tapping on the door. "Are you ready?"

Pulling himself together he thought of little Tommy and how happy he'd be to see Father Christmas.

"Right then," he opened the door, "let's get this started."

In the boy's ward there was the thrum of chatter, children excited by the day itself, the slightest change to their routine.

"Now…" Charles said, striding into the room, the heel of his heavy black boots stamping the thrum of a steady beat as he walked. "Merry Christmas, boys."

"Santa!" they chorused, the lively ones suddenly standing on their beds.

Charles waved his hand to little Tommy, winking at him specifically, and the youngster grinned with delight. "Merry Christmas, Santa," he said.

He laid the sack down in the middle of the room, "Gifts for all," he said enthusiastically. "Little patience whilst we hand them out. And nurse, I believe Mrs. Claus has sent cake."

The boys cheered as the nurse nodded, "First thing this morning, prompt."

"She always is," he said softly to himself, thinking of Elsie and Mrs. Patmore wrapping up the sweet treat. "Right, who do we have first then," he turned over the label, "Bernard, do we have a Bernard in here?"

"Right here, sir," a little voice said, getting down from his bed and holding out his left hand, his right one encased in plaster.

"Merry Christmas, Bernard," he handed the gift across.

"Thank you, Santa." The boy raced back to his bed, tearing at the paper with his free hand.

After a good ten minutes or so of handing out presents Charles looked up and to his surprise Elsie was standing at the entrance to the room, along with Cora and Isobel.

Elsie's cheeks were flushed, and she pursed her lips as she smiled at him, her wondrous eyes sparkling.

"Lady Grantham, Lady Grey… _Mrs. Carson_. A good day to you all."

"Oh, don't let us interrupt," Cora said, "carry on Father Christmas."

He did as instructed, though keenly aware now of being watched.

After the presents were distributed, he spent some time wandering around the ward, careful to spend a few moments with each boy.

"I suspect you're exhausted, Santa, after working all night, travelling the world," Elsie said, helping to hand out cake.

"That I am. I'm afraid I will bid you a goodnight."

The boys gave a whine of complaint but cheered again as he collected his things and waved his goodbye. The matron escorted him back to the store cupboard and inside he changed, emerging again in his Sunday suit and returning to the ward.

"Did I miss something exciting?"

"Mr. Carson!" Tommy shouted, "Look what Santa gave me!"

"Santa Claus was here?"

"Yes, isn't that unbelievable? I didn't think he'd find the hospital."

Charles drew a chair up by the bed, "He gets everywhere. I suspect he's ready for a cup of tea."

"How about that for timing," Elsie said, handing him a freshly brewed cup. "Must have read your mind," she squeezed his shoulder

"Didn't expect to see you here, busy as you are."

"I think they can manage, they may have to get used to it anyway."

She gave him a knowing look before returning to serving the boys and clearing away wrapping paper.

"How are you feeling today lad?" Charles asked.

"Better Mr. Carson, but I want to go home."

"Did Doctor Clarkson say when?"

The boy shrugged, "Mother doesn't say, she'll be here later, you might meet her."

"I might."

"I have something for you," Tommy said, opening the drawer by his bed and taking out a red envelope scrawled with ' _Mr. Car sun'_ on the front in black crayon. "I did it all myself," he said eagerly.

On the front of the card was Charles, dressed in his livery, holding, what he assumed was Tommy, above his head on a tray. The word 'Here-row' was written at the bottom which made Charles smile (though he was careful not to correct the spelling) and in the background the lake, though no longer iced over as it appeared to be summer.

"Like a scarecrow," Charles said, his chest rumbling with laughter, "look at my arms."

"They're long and strong," Tommy stretched out his own arm.

"Oh, yours are getting stronger too, stronger every day. Lovely work, Tommy, thank you very much. It will take pride of place on the mantle."

"I'm glad you like it, I did it in Wednesday art class."

"Time well spent, have you had cake yet?"

"Nope."

"I'll go get us both a slice."

* * *

Later, when the excitement had died down and most of the staff had gone, Charles read to the boys as they settled in bed. Short Christmas stories, and each time he finished they begged for more.

Lady Grantham and Lady Grey had long since departed and only Elsie remained, though he was unsure how she had managed to wrangle the day off, he would ask questions later, perhaps tomorrow or the day after. In the scheme of things it didn't matter.

She tidied up after the boys, cleared away cake crumbs, and then sat by the window listening as he read.

When visiting hours started they made themselves scarce, saying their goodbyes to Tommy and promising to visit in the next few days.

They had collected the costume from the store cupboard and were making their way down the corridor when Tommy's mother was coming in the opposite direction.

"Mrs. Carson," she said, noting Elsie and then turning her attention to Charles. "You must be Mr. Carson."

"I am indeed."

"Gerry quick," she called behind her, "this is him, this is the man."

A rather haggard looking man, whippet thin just like his son and with a mop of greyish-black hair and startling green eyes, came toward them.

"Is it now?" He broke into a broad grin, a row of crooked teeth on display and he roughly took hold of Charles' hand and shook it, "Need to shake the hand of the man who saved my lad. Thankful, course we are, lucky you were there."

"Well, you know, right place, right time." He slowly edged his hand free.

"Forget the handshake," the mother, Linda, threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. "You deserve more than we can ever give."

Charles' eyes were wide in terror as he searched for Elsie; she smirked at his fear.

"I was merely doing what any good citizen would."

"More than that," she said, loosening her hold. "Coming here, showing an interest, not everyone has time for our way of life," she shrugged and Charles inwardly cringed, "many might have been glad to have seen my boy die."

"No," Elsie said, "he's just a boy." She took hold of Charles' arm, "But you're right, he is a good citizen, a very good man."

* * *

"Time to walk home," Charles said casually outside of the hospital, "busy day."

"You've been wonderful," she stopped to turn and face him. "You do realise you deserve all this praise, and, if you'd like my opinion…"

"Always."

"You would be an asset to the hospital, they'd be lucky to have you."

"Elsie…" he started, his cheeks warming. He looked up sharply when a vehicle approached and Elsie turned with a smile.

"Right on time," she said softly.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carson, Merry Christmas to you," Mr. Mason said as he emerged from the vehicle. "Have you enjoyed the day?"

"Very much so," Elsie said, "and yourself?"

"Ay, as it's gone, be nice to see our Daisy later, and of course, Mrs. Patmore."

"Oh, of course," Elsie smiled, following him to the back of his truck as he opened the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Mason," she whispered, "this is awfully good of you, kind, to come out on Christmas Day."

"Couldn't refuse such a request."

There was the tiniest nip of noise as Mr. Mason took a large box from the truck and placed it on the floor.

"What's all this? Something for the hospital?" Charles said, standing by bemused.

"Not quite," Elsie's smile was growing broader by the second. "Something for you, a Christmas gift."

He frowned, shaking his head, wondering what on earth Mr. Mason could possibly have to offer him.

"Well, open it," Elsie said excitedly, clapping together her gloved hands. "Go on."

Cautiously, Charles lifted the lid on the box and peered inside. Shivering in the bottom was the tiniest little creature he'd seen. Chocolate brown with bright blue eyes peering up at him.

"Who's this then?" he asked, one hand reaching down to touch the puppy's head.

"I'm rather hoping he will be your new best friend," Elsie said hopefully, "your faithful companion."

He looked up at her, frowning.

* * *

"I think I've happened upon it," Charles said, watching as Elsie warmed milk in the kitchen and the puppy lapped at a bowl of water on the floor.

"Happened upon what?"

"A name."

"Go on," she poured the milk into their mugs.

"How about Cocoa?"

"It certainly suits his colouring."

"And is my favourite time of the day."

"Ah, yes…" she carried their mugs across, handing Charles his and sitting in her rocking chair for the first time. "You are, er, happy about this then, about him?"

"Surprised," he said, sipping his drink and then looking from her face to the puppy who was now sat by the kitchen table staring at them.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked. Discussed it."

"No, of course not." He smiled at the puppy, and the dog tilted his head to one side, ears twitching. "I think it will be a wonderful addition to our life. Someone else to share our little home."

"To join our lives in retirement?"

He looked back at her, "If that's what you want. Only if you're sure that's what you want."

The puppy nervously wandered cross, standing between their chairs by the fire and looking up at Charles.

"See, he already loves you."

"I doubt that very much."

"You are quite lovable," she teased, putting her mug aside. "Cocoa," she held her hand down to him. "How do you like that then, is that a good name for you?"

The puppy licked her fingers.

"We might have guessed he'd love you first." He stroked his hand down the dog's back. "He'll need a basket, a nice collar."

She smiled to herself, at him already making plans; having the dog would be good for him, someone to walk every day, shower with attention.

"Shall we eat?" She asked.

"Open your presents," he said, continuing to stroke the puppy as it rubbed up against his trouser leg. "Especially these."

"I'll open these and then we eat, let's space out the present opening… more fun, that way." She leant forward and kissed him, reaching for the neatly wrapped packages.

Inside were two beautifully embroidered red cushions, in the other a blanket.

"These are just beautiful," she said, shaking out the blanket. "Wherever did you find them?"

"Well, Anna helped with the cushions, handmade."

"That's even better."

The puppy suddenly jumped up onto Charles' lap, staring up at him with large, expectant eyes.

"Oh, that's not… I'm not sure this is…" Cocoa yapped, pressing his two front paws against Charles' chest.

"You made a new friend, see."

He sat back as the puppy turned round and sat in his lap, the pair of them watching as Elsie rose and started to prepare their supper in the kitchen.

"Little family," he whispered to himself.


	26. Chapter 26

**Sunday, December 26** **th** **, Z = Zany!**

"Charlie…" Elsie muttered, eyes heavy, body embraced by a cocoon of warmth. She wiggled her leg a little; felt like she couldn't lift a finger. "Charlie…" She said again.

He snored beside her.

She moved her left leg, felt something shift and follow.

"Charles," she said louder, hearing him snort and move, the sheets tugging.

He grumbled, voice laden with sleep, "Whatever is it?"

"He's on my feet."

He turned onto his side, facing her but muttering into his pillow, "He's not allowed on the bed."

"Nor upstairs. But it doesn't appear to have stopped him."

He yawned, "Be fine."

"He's not on your legs."

"Move him."

"He's too heavy, and I'm asleep."

He opened one eye and looked to her sleepy face and then down the bed to where the puppy perched.

"Cocoa," Charles said, wiggling the bedding, "Cocoa, up off there."

The puppy stood, eyes wide and ears alert as he padded up over Elsie's body and onto her stomach.

"Ohhh, goodness." She held her hands up and the puppy licked them affectionately.

"Look at this," Charles said, rubbing the dog's head and receiving a lick to his palm. "He already loves us."

"Well I would think so, nice warm bed he's got himself into."

Cocoa stepped off Elsie's body and into the space between them, laying down and looking up at them.

"He needs a bed," Elsie said.

"I'll get him one, perhaps for now he could have it in here rather than downstairs. It's cold, winter, he could have it by the fire over there."

"Softie," Elsie yawned, "it feels frosty," she tugged the covers back over her shoulder. "And he'll need the bathroom soon I wouldn't wonder."

"That's true, wouldn't want anything on the floor." He reluctantly pushed the sheets back and got to his feet, groaning as he stretched his back. Cocoa pushed himself up and waddled to the edge of the bed, standing to attention as Charles put his robe on.

"See, he already knows his master." Elsie said.

"He's smart."

"It's the voice, the deep voice holds his attention… it got mine."

He smiled at that, at the mischief in her voice, the hint of a smile.

"Won't be long," he said gently. "Will need to start training him."

* * *

It had snowed in the night, and as he stood there, in the brisk crisp air, Cocoa sniffed around his new garden, his tail wagging as he plodded through the snow.

"Aren't your paws cold?" Charles asked, and the puppy's ears lifted at the sound of his voice. "My toes are, come along, do whatever it is you need to do so we can get back to the warm."

He glanced up to the sky, heavy with grey and the threat of further snow. "Looks like we won't be walking far today. But we will, soon enough. I'll take you over the back fields and up to the woods, you'll like it there, especially in the summer then you can splash in the stream." He looked down to the puppy's face as he sat by Charles' feet and gazed up at him. "No mud in the house though mind. Not sure Mrs. Carson will appreciate it." He clapped his hands together, "Come on now, back inside."

In the kitchen, he poured a little of the dry dog food into the bowl Elsie had laid down the night before, watching as the pup eagerly chomped his way through it.

"Maybe something better for dinner, maybe there is meat once we eat. That would be good. Or bacon, if we're good –" he bent to rub the dog's ears. "–maybe Elsie will make bacon for breakfast. Not too much though, hey, don't want to get a paunch."

He made a pot of tea, waited until the dog had finished eating before he poured it. Opened the curtains in the lounge, let the white light into the room. Cocoa found his way onto the sofa, circling a little before he plopped down and rested his head on his paws.

"Exhausted, are we?" Charles shook his head as he climbed the stairs back to their bedroom.

Elsie was laying back, her eyes closed though she was propped up on the pillows. He set their tea cups down on the bedside table, close enough to see the trace of tear stains on her cheeks.

"Elsie?" he asked, a hand reaching to touch her shoulder. "Whatever…" He had never been comfortable with extravagant shows of emotion, though things were changing, had changed, and he felt a stab in his stomach at the thought that she might be sad.

"It's alright," she said gently, reaching to touch his hand. "I was just listening to you down there…" she breathed deeply, slowly opening her eyes. "It made me happy. That is all."

"Ah," he felt somewhat sheepish at being exposed, but then, he was laid bare to her nowadays.

She touched his hand reassuringly, "Don't worry Charlie, women can be confusing beings. Thank you for the tea." She tilted her head and smiled, "And yes, I will make bacon for breakfast. Just… not quite yet."

He took the hint and removed his robe, climbing back into bed beside her.

They sat side-by-side sipping their tea, listening to the waking morning.

"I enjoy this," she said gently, "our home, being warm and content in here, no rush or fuss."

"I suppose it had to come one day. And, we do deserve it."

She glanced at him, "I've never heard you say anything of the sort before."

"I have never been retired before," he finished his tea. "Nor had a wife, never mind a puppy."

She chuckled at that, putting her tea cup aside and laying down again.

"Do you want to explain to me what happened yesterday? Why you had the afternoon off?"

"Yes. I will."

"Are you retired, now?"

She shook her head in the negative. "I am thinking about it, still undecided."

"And her ladyship…"

"Gave me the day off. Or days, I should say. She thought I looked tired."

He turned sharply to her, "Are you quite well?"

"I am, my darling," she placed her hand over his on top of the bedsheets. "It has been a rather busy month is all, and what with you… well, it all made me think, about the time we have left and what we do with it." She lifted his hand into hers, "So with that in mind, her ladyship and I have decided I will become more of a part time member of staff."

"Oh? You're not going to leave your position?"

"Not yet. I will do it the majority of the time, during my two days off Anna will take the helm. Train up, if you like, it should balance nicely with the children. By the time I completely disappear, or drop down dead, she should be able to run things – the children at school."

"This is all sounds very thought out."

She pressed against his side, "I never meant to leave you out of the discussion, I just didn't want you to worry you, you had such a lot going on. Truth be told I wasn't going to do anything until after New Year, when things calmed down. But then, well, her ladyship and I met to discuss a couple of things for New Year's Eve and it just went down a certain path."

"Oh," he settled back against his pillows, feeling her lying beside him. "I would rather enjoy two full days with you."

"And I you. Time for the cottage too, I never seem to have time here. And with the pup now –,"

"We can walk him together," he said eagerly.

"We can. Though I'll prefer it when spring comes."

They lay in silence for a moment, holding hands, listening to the crack of ice on the window panes. Her head rested on his arm at first, and then she slipped a little further down, her cheek resting against his chest, the soft fragrance of his pyjamas comforting as she closed her eyes. His fingers, which had been pressed against her upper arm, moved to her shoulder and with his eyes closed also he stroked her hair. The end of her plait slipped through his palm, he caught it against his thumb and forefinger and loosened the band that held it in place.

The long strands fell apart as he moved his hand along it, filling his palm with silky warmth. His fingers slid up to her scalp, and she moaned lightly at his touch as he massaged it.

In time he grew brave enough to move her back against the pillows, leaning over her body as he kissed her, eyes closed, content and without a care or rush.

He moved his hand down over her belly, tugging at her nightgown in a familiar move. She sat slightly to help him, lifting the material over her head, laying back down as his mouth crushed against hers – hungry and yet gentle with it.

"My love," he whispered, moving to kiss her breasts.

Her eyes closed, she liked it when he did this, touched her gently, took his time – he was getting so good at it, especially his mouth on her neck. Sweet kisses, like he adored her – no, because he did adore her. Her husband. This man who was her best friend, and now her lover.

She reached to his hand that cupped her breast, pushed on it, sending it down to her belly, he continued to adorn her skin with kisses, and she thought how cool the air was around them, how hot their bodies were in contrast. She nudged his fingers down further, recalling her teenage years on the farm, when she first discovered what it was to feel pleasure and desire. To know her own body. She couldn't do that in service, when sharing a room.

"Elsie," he said again, and then his tongue flicked over her nipple and she groaned, parting her legs, pushing his hand eagerly down to touch her.

He was tentative but not shy, not anymore, and the deeper her breathing got, the more she moaned, the more he seemed to relish it. He pressed his thumb, moved it until she moaned louder, alternated pressure, committed to memory what she liked best.

Elsie felt wanton, and powerful because of it. She could feel the results of Charles' desire pressed against her hip, but she was in no rush. They had the entire day to enjoy each other. Making love on Boxing Day for the first time in her entire life.

"Oh, the bliss of it." She murmured.

"Heavenly," he said, before his mouth found hers again.

* * *

Elsie watched as the puppy's nose ploughed through the snow, sniffing and then lifting his head and sneezing on the ice particles.

"Silly little thing," she said, "you are rather cute though." She bent down, holding out her hand, and the pup darted towards her yapping as she rubbed at his back. "You shouldn't breathe in the snow though, no," she looked down into his large eyes, "no, you shouldn't."

She got back to her feet, watching as the excitable dog leaped across the garden, momentarily disappearing into the snow and then re-emerging.

Charles came out of the shed with an armful of logs, grinning like a child when their eyes met. She pursed her lips as she smiled, trying to suppress the joy in her heart. His cheeks were red, his eyes bright, and she thought how healthy he looked.

"You'll catch cold," he said, "go on in."

"I have my beautiful scarf," she said, showing it off.

"A gift for my beautiful wife," he paused, leaning in to quickly kiss her.

She followed him in, the puppy chasing after them when he feared he'd be left alone.

"You know, we'll probably never be alone again," Elsie said as Charles made the fire in the lounge and Cocoa sat beside him watching. "I sense he will always be by your side."

"I always did like the idea of a son," Charles admitted.

"Oh…" Elsie paused in her preparation of dinner, "you've never said that before."

He sat back, leaving the fire alone as it slowly came to life, bringing warmth into the room. "I have never admitted it to myself. The things we gave up…" he sighed heavily, and then turned, still kneeling on the carpet. "If it weren't for you."

She held his gaze, tilting her head to one side and smiling, "I'll always be here." She held her hand out, "Merry Christmas, Charlie."

"Merry Christmas, the best one I have ever known."

Cocoa yapped, a tiny tinny sound from his small lungs.

"We haven't forgotten you," Elsie said, rubbing his ears with one hand, "I'll put the bacon on, make breakfast. You think he'll accompany you to the hospital?"

"I haven't accepted the position yet."

"But you will. And besides the children will love to play with him."

"I suppose they might."

"You're a good man Charles Carson, it's about time the rest of the world realised what I already know."

"And that is?"

"How lucky we are to have you in our lives."


End file.
